


A Classic Cold Brew

by Chimie_Chat



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Coming Out, Firsts, M/M, Memes, Slow Burn, Summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-29 13:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 66,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14473473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimie_Chat/pseuds/Chimie_Chat
Summary: The one thing any sixteen year old wants is a car. Jon Kent is no exception. He gets a summer job at a coffee shop in Metropolis in order to save up. He's expecting a long summer of long hours at minimum wage. What he doesn't expect is the big city crazies, the sheer number of frappuccinos, and a very attractive regular.





	1. Summer Jobs

Nine-thousand, five hundred dollars; that’s now much a used 2013 Chevrolet pickup truck would cost him. Jon had talked to his parent’s about it, and they agreed if he could save up the money himself then they would pay the insurance. It helped that they had a family friend whose daughter’s husband worked at a used car joint that could likely give him a discount if he turned the charm up a couple notches.

But in order to raise that money, he needed a job. He had planned on getting a summer job anyway, this just gave him some motivation.

It was a bright and early seven am, only the second day of summer break. Any sane teenager would be fast asleep until noon. But instead, Jon was getting ready for work. He had been told to wear either black or tan pants, and a white or black shirt. Since today was his first day, he decided to go with black pants and a white button-up he borrowed from his father. He grabbed his glasses off his nightstand and slipped them onto his face.

“Jon! If you don’t hurry up your father and I are leaving without you!” His mother’s voice called down the hall to his room.

“Coming!” The sixteen year old scrambled to throw a few essentials into his backpack; phone charger, a bag of Doritos, wallet, the most tangled up pair of headphones you ever did see, and a half-full bottle of Dasani. You know. The essentials.

His parents were at the entrance of their three bedroom apartment, both dressed up for work.

“Good to go kiddo?” His father smiled as he adjusted a clunky pair of glasses onto his face.

“Yup.” The teen grabbed his sneakers off the floor and quickly shoved his feet into them.

“Excited for your first day at work?” The man passed his son a spare pair of keys.

Jon shrugged. “It’s not too exciting, Dad. It’s just a summer gig.”

“A first job is a big deal.”

“I used to work on the farm all the time.”

“Boys.” His mother opened the front door. “Come on. It’s time to go.”

Jon’s father smiled at him. “You heard the lady.”

Both of Jon’s parents were journalists. Anyone in Metropolic who read the Daily Planet knew the names Clark Kent and Lois Lane. Jon didn’t think too much of it. All he read of the paper were the funnies. But he didn’t exactly need to read the Sunday post when his mother wrote the front page.

Did Jon have a cool, fancy, college resumé building summer internship at the Planet? No. Of course not. What’s wrong with you? No, Jon was all lined up to work at the little café on the first floor. “The Daily Grind” it was called, and it was where everyone who worked at, or near by the Daily Planet went for a decent, yet horribly overpriced, cup of coffee. The only reason Jon had applied for a job there was because he could hitch a ride with his parents for most of his shifts. That, and it paid $11.50 an hour, plus tips, which definitely wasn’t bad for a sixteen year old.

The Kent family loaded up into Clark’s car today, and headed out. Jon had been living in Metropolis since he was ten, so he was pretty much used to the traffic by now. It took a solid twenty minutes to travel ten point six miles. Not bad for rush hour. They parked in the employee parking lot, and as a weird little family trio… thing… made their way to the elevator. Jon’s mother couldn’t resist the urge to fix her son’s hair on the way up. The second they got to the lobby, the young boy launched himself off the lift.

Now, a teenager alone in the lobby of a national newspaper industry was certainly out of place. After a bit of awkwardly shuffling around the main area, Jon located the Daily Grind. There was a wall of windows separating the café from the rest of the lobby, with a glass door just off to the side. He walked in. The café was already open, with a line well passed formed. As awkwardly as a sixteen year old can possibly muster, Jon walked around the line to the ‘pick-up’ counter/ As soon as one of the baristas put a new drink down on the counter, he flaghed them down.

“Hey, um, I’m supposed to be starting today?” There was no reason why that was said like a question. It wasn’t a question. It was definitely supposed to be a statement, yet here we were.

The barista looked almost bewildered before eventually making a vague gesture towards a door that presumably let to a back area. “Knock and someone should let you in.”

Jon said a quick ‘thanks’, then went to go knock on said door. He had to wait for a young woman. Well, she looked like she could have been anywhere between nineteen and thirty three. She looked him up and down.

“Ah, you’re the new kid.” She ushered him into the backroom. The area was like a little lounge, break room-ish area. “Nice to meet you, I’m Jocelyn.”

“Jon.” Another “J” name. Great.

“Is that what you want your name tag to say?” She clearly had read his application and saw ‘Jonathan’ on it. No one called him that except his mother when he was in trouble.

“Yeah. J-o-n.”

Jocelyn wrote the spelling on a sticky note pad she pulled out of her pocket. “I’m the manager for the morning shift most days out of the week.” She said. “I’m usually here from before opening, to about noon.”

“Alright.” Jon slipped his backpack off of his shoulders, just holding it by the strap at his side.

“Ok, I’m going to go print out your name tag, then we’ll get start. Sound good?”

“Yup.”

Jon spent the next two hours “training”. He was shown how storage worked in the back, the differences between the packaging of different coffee beans, as well as given a large binder containing the recipés for each drink the café served. He was told to memorize them as soon as possible so that he could start making them. Until then, he’d be on register and stolk room duty.

The teenage boy was given a position by one of two registers. There was another guy, maybe a little older than him, who worked the other register.

“Ennis, this is Jon,” His boss made the introduction. “Could you show him the ropes here?”

“Sure thing.”

“You ever use one of these before?” Ennis was a tall, college aged looking guy. He had dark to skin, with what looked like tattoos peeking out from under his short sleeved, black polo.

“Nope.” Honesty was the best policy after all.

“It’s pretty easy actually.” Ennis turned his own monitor slightly so that Jon would be able to see the screen, then called the next customer. “Hello, welcome to the Daily Grind. What would you like today?”

The customer was a busy looking woman. “Can I get a tall soy latte. Double shot.”

“Sure thing.” Ennis gave the woman a perfect customer service smile. “Alright so, to put in an order, you just select the type of drink that’s ordered. She said a latte, so you hit the latte button. Then, since she asked for soy milk, and a double shot, you pick those down here in this section,” Ennis tapped on the buttons on the screen. “Then hit “finish order” when you get everything, and the register calculates the price for you. That’ll be $4.53 ma’am.”

The woman handed over a ten dollar bill. “So for payments, it’ll give you three options: credit, debit, cash. Pick whatever they give you.” Ennis picked “cash”, and a new window popped up asking for the amount paid. He quickly put in ten, and within seconds the computer had calculated how much change was owed. The cash drawer popped open, and Ennis slid the tenner into the right spot, then removed the appropriate amount of change. “When you’re done, hit “print receipt”. What’s the name for the order?” He asked as he handed the money and paper receipt back to the woman.

“Anna.”

“Thank you very much.” Ennis said to the woman. “Alright, then you grab the right sized cup, plastic for cold drinks, paper for hot, and write the name and the order down.”

“Do I need to write the full orde?”

“Nah bud.” Ennis slid a laminated piece of paper to the younger teen. “This has little acronyms for each item. Just use that and everyone will know what you mean. Once you write it on the cup, put it on the counter behind ya, and the barista’s will make it.”

“Cool.” Jon nodded. Sounded easy enough.

“Why don’t you give this next one a shot?”

After fumbling through a few orders, with quite a bit of help imputing the different drinks, Jon was slowly figuring out how things worked. He kept the drink shorthand cheat sheet on the counter next to him for when he needed to label cups. Although, he would say with much pride, that he was already spelling names incorrectly. He was quite proud of himself. Really. Truly. This was his calling. But in all actuality, what kind of name was “Maeve”?

He kept his eye on the clock. This first shift of his was supposed to go until about three thirty. He would be getting off work before either of his parents, but he’d just take the bus home. Hopefully there was still money on his Trip card…

It was about three now, and he was really starting to get a hang of this register thing. It was still a little complicated when people paid in cash, since he’d have to count out the change, and mental math was certainly not his forté, but he’d get used to it.

How bad of a sign was it that it was his first day of work, and he already couldn’t wait to go home? Fifteen minutes left. So close. There was no longer a line or anything, just a few customers sitting at either the tables or the bar counter by the window..

“Hey Jon.” The manager came up to him. “Could you wipe down the table tops before you head out?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” The teen looked around. There were three workers just lounging around, not really doing anything. “Want me to do that now?”

“Yeah, if you could.”

Jon nodded then left his register. He grabbed a washcloth and spray bottle filled halfway with some miscellaneous cleaning solution; could be soapy water, could be bleach, could literally just be watered down blue raspberry syrup and Jon would be none the wiser. He started spraying down tables, wiping crumbs and coffee spills off the tops. One table had a glob of whipped cream and what looked like six emptied out sugar packets. Some people really were disgusting. Of course, he had to avoid the tables people were actually sitting at. He wasn’t exactly seeking out the insanely awkward interaction. All he had left was the counter tops by the windows facing the street entrance. There was one on either side of the door. One of them was completely empty, so he wiped it off quickly. The problem was, the other… Not so much.

There was one individual who just decided to ruin everything by sitting on the fourth stool from the wall. Jon only kind of remembered him; he wasn’t the one who took the guy’s order, but he had obviously seen him in line, and sitting in the café for almost an hour now. Whoever the dude was, he looked young, but he was in full business attire, so maybe he just had one of those faces that made it impossible to buy liquor without getting carded. The real problem wasn’t that this guy was sitting there. If he had just been twiddling on his phone with a cup of coffee, then this wouldn’t be all that uncomfortable. But oh no. _That_ would have been too easy. No, this individual decided to bring his entire office with him. A laptop was positioned next to what looked like three folder, a notepad, and a tablet. Why he needed both a tablet and a computer was beyond understanding. Several papers were spread out, neatly laid next to one another, while another packet was in the guy’s hand. One cup of coffee, and a cup of water were both within easy reaching distance.

So basically, even though it was just one human being, the fellow had the audacity to take up enough space for a small business meeting. What was the protocol here? Just let that counter be? Wipe down the surrounding area? Get as uncomfortably close to the dude as possible? Deciding in favor of caution, but wanting to make sure he actually did his damned job, Jon decided to go with the first option. He sprayed the cleaning solution into his washcloth, to make sure that he didn’t accidently spray whoever this guy was, then scrubbed the surface. He tried not to get too close.

“Do you need me to move?”

Being completely honest, the sudden interaction was more of a shock than it probably should have been. Jon was completely caught off guard, not by the… man… talking, but by the fact that whoever this customer was didn’t look up from the files in hand. There was a solid forty seven seconds of Jon being dazed and confused before it processed in his head.

“No, you’re fine.” Thank god his voice hadn’t cracked. “Unless you want me to clean your area of something.”

The guy flipped to a new page in the packet he was reading. “No thank you.”

Jon tried to resist the urge to quirk an eyebrow. “Right.” He picked up his washcloth and crossed over to the other side of the person, then repeating the same cleaning action. Of course, the counter decided not to read the super uncomfortable mood here, and obviously had to have a huge, dried up coffee spill on it. Jon frown as he put more pressure into tried to clean the stain off, before deciding to just attack the spot with three spritzes of cleaning fluid.

“You’re very diligent at your job.” The man commented.

“It’s my first day. Figured I should start off on a good note.”

The guy took a sip of his coffee. “I thought so. I didn’t recognize you.”

“You a regular?”

Jon watched as whoever this was typed some kind of notes into whatever program was pulled up on his laptop. “You could say that.”

Riiiiight. Well, this was getting exceedingly more unpleasant as time went by. “Guess I’ll see you around then.”

“Likely.”

“Uh, enjoy your coffee.” With his absolute lack of grace, Jon turned tail and got the heck out of that conversation. He headed straight to the back room, to where his things were, after putting the cleaning supplies away. When he got back there, he found that someone, likely his manager, had placed a piece of paper on top of the binder full of drink repicés he had to take home. Upon further inspection, Jon noticed that it was his work schedule for the rest of the week, with a link at the bottom to the Google Spreadsheet that he guessed had the full schedule or something on it.

Jon jammed his piece of paper into the binder, before putting that and his new name tag into his bag. He said a few goodbyes, and made sure to clock out properly, before heading out the streetside door. He shot a quick text to both parental units.

_“Just got off work. I’m taking the bus home. I’ll text you both again when I get back.”_

It wasn’t long before his phone buzzed again.

_Mom: Congrats on your first day! Can’t wait to hear about it. Your dad and I should be home by six._


	2. Whom the F***

Five thirty AM alarms were the worst. They were as loud as sirens, even on the lowest settings. They were unwelcome on any day of the week. They never meant anything exciting, only that it was time to force yourself from the safety of your bed, get dressed in the most ill fitting clothes required by the West-Reeve uniform policy, and hobble off to school. But right now, Jon was debating what was worse: five thirty alarms, or six forty-five alarms. Because while five thirty meant slumping off to school, six forty-five meant praying that he still had a clean work-appropriate shirt left, and mentally preparing himself for the chaos that was working the morning shift.

There weren’t many things more stressful than working the early shift in a coffee shop located in the lobby of a the most important office building in what was arguably one of the more important large cities in the United States. Rather than customers, the undead came up to the register, grunting their orders. Jon just hoped that he was hearing them correctly. He felt pretty similar to a zombie himself. Admittedly, he wasn’t much of a fan of coffee, unless it had four or five sugar packets, was half creamer, and it was actually hot chocolate, not coffee. Apparently it was customary for the opening shift to do a shot of espresso together. Jon thanked his god damned soul that he started work at eight, not at six, when the Daily Grind actually opened.

Another zombie of a human being asked for a venti black coffee, and Jon felt bad for the poor guy. But he wrote the shorthand for black french roast on the side of the cup, along with what he was pretty sure the guy’s name was, and passed it along to the baristas who would actually be preparing the drinks.

Jon had been working for exactly six days, but he still wasn’t serving drinks unsupervised. Most of his shifts were spent at the register, where he had already practically memorized all of the possible inscriptions for every drink on the menu. Other times he worked “behind the scenes”, refilling coffee pots, grabbing new bottles of chocolate, caramel, and hazelnut syrup from the back room, and cleaning off table tops. As far as making drinks went, Jon was still in the process of memorizing every recipe in the binder he was given. During the lazy hours, the other baristas would quiz him on how to make some of the more popular drinks. The occasional smart aleck would rattle off some overly pretentious order that had about seventeen different components to it. Surely he wouldn’t have to deal with anyone like that, he thought optimistically.

Another shell of a news reporter approached Jon’s counter. She was a nice looking lady; well dressed, cleaned up nicely. Her makeup was flawless. “Can I get a venti iced skinny hazelnut macchiato, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip.”

Ah. The devil incarnate. What a pleasure to meet you.

“Sure thing ma’am.” Jon kept his newly discovered customer service smile on. He scribbled the details for the order on the side of the cup, mentally apologizing to the unfortunate soul who would be making this one. What kind of place did she think this was? Starbucks? “What’s the name for the order?”

“Charlotte.”

Fitting.

“That will be five forty-one.” The woman pulled her credit card out of her wallet, and Jon just waited until she completely her end of the transaction, and for the receipt to print. He handed it to her, and thanked her for her patronage. He wondered if she worked in the building, or if she was just stopping by cause this café just happened to be on her way to where she was heading. He really hoped for the latter.

It took about an hour for the heavy traffic to die down, and Jon was finally able to take a deep breath. Right now it was a quarter past nine, and he had to stay on register for until ten, but after that he got a five minute break. He planned on spending that break eating the peanut butter bagel his mother packed him for breakfast, but then after that he would have to prove he knew how to use the espresso machine.

Jon tapped his hand against his thigh in rhythm to the song playing off someone’s spotify playlist, as he waited for the next guy in line to figure out what he wanted before he would finally approached the register. Thankfully, there wasn’t any line behind him. Who goes to a café without knowing what they want anyways? When it came down to it, there were really two options: coffee, and not coffee. Eventually this guy went to the other register, for some… reason… Which meant the line was completely open. Odd for nine twenty. Jon would have figured more people would still be coming in to get their morning coffees before work, but it would seem that he didn’t understand adult work schedules as well as he thought he did.

It wasn’t long before the street-side door swung open again. Some guy walked in, who for some reason Jon vaguely recognized.

The only descriptive word Jon had for the man was “sharp”. He was definitely dressed for work; black slacks and a charcoal gray button-up shirt were both clearly ironed and pressed. There was just the slightest bit of pattern in his black tie, which was tied in some kind of fancy knot that was way too complicated by Jon’s high school homecoming standards. A dark blazer was folded neatly, over the dark leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. To put it simply, he looked like a prick.

Said prick-looking individual approached Jon’s cash register with the confidence of rich suburban soccer mom; he may not own the place, but he would certainly ask for the manager if even the slightest thing was wrong. Once this individual was close enough, Jon was able to see how perfectly gelled back each strand of this man’s hair was. The point of his bangs alone could probably be classified as a murder weapon.

“Hello. Welcome to the Daily Grind.” Jon began his usual introduction. “What would you like today?”

“Yes, one grande hazelnut latte.” The guy reached into his pocket for his wallet as he made his order. “Soy milk please.”

“Got it.” Jon mentally quadruple checked that he marked for soy milk on the cup he wrote the order on. “What’s the name for the order?”

“Damian.” The guy already had his credit card in hand.

Oh lord Jon hoped he spelled that right. Within the five second exchange for “Damian” to order his drink, there was suddenly a line again. What kind of black sorcery was this? Jon was quick to punch the specifics of the order into his register, and tried not to watch as the man paid for his order. “Would you like a receipt?”

“No thank you.” This guy was short and to the point, but polite, which was appreciated.

The entire transaction was short and simple. Casual. The exact same as any other interaction…

So…

Please…

Do tell...

If you can of course…

_Why in the name of the ever loving lord of the earth, sea, and skies was Jon still thinking about it four hours later?_

No. Seriously. Someone please explain this. In that time span, Jon had finished his shift at the register, clocked out for his lunch break, and done his rounds cleaning off tables. He was developing quite the relationship with the washcloth. Now he was in the back room, trying to consolidate coffee filters into one box, and for some reason he was still thinking about that freaking guy. Now, it wasn’t one of those cliché rom-com moments where Jon was some sweet southern belle who was drooling over some dreamy cowboy. This wasn’t some kind of Danny Zuko meeting Sandy Olsson moment. Jon wasn’t thinking about how to draw this man like one of his french girls. No, no, no. Absolutely nothing like that.

Oh no. Jon was just trying to figure out why he recognized this guy. The teenaged boy thought he was pretty good with faces. He had a good memory. Now, that didn’t mean he was good with names, but he could usually figure out what social circle he met someone in. But for some reason the sixteen year old couldn’t remember where he recognized this “Damian” fellow from.

It wasn’t school. Jon was in the yearbook club. It was his business to know everyone in his school. But Jon didn’t do any other extracurricular activities outside of video games, surfing the internet, and marinating in his own teenage emotions. So by that logic, the only other way Jon could know this guy would be from working here. But he would have known if he’d taken this guy’s order before. He would have totally known. You don’t just forget hair that pointy.

Jon left the storage room and padded his adolescent self over to the folded metal chair his backpack was plopped on. He dug through it to find his cellphone and just checked to see if he had any messages. He had a few emails, a facebook group chat seems to have exploded sometime around two o’clock, and a message from his mother.

_Mom: Your dad and I are leaving work early today. Do you want a ride home?_

Jackpot.

Hopefully.

He quickly texted her back, telling her that he was supposed to clock out at four that day. With any luck, that would be early enough that he wouldn’t need to shove himself onto a bus unfortunately close to rush hour. Within seconds he got a message back, because mothers were always on top of things. Well… His mother was at least.

_Mom: I’ll meet you in the lobby at 4:15._

God bless America.

Now… Back to figuring out who the crap this “Damian” guy is...


	3. Practice Makes Perfect

_ Ok. One cup of coffee. Easy.  _

The dark liquid splattered into the blender as Jon poured it. Ok, next was milk. The teen bent down to the cooler underneath the cabinet and pulled out a gallon of whole milk.

“The customer said low-fat, _ ese _ .”

Low-fat milk. He pulled out a gallon of low-fat milk, and poured out a cup of that as well. “This was a….. caramel frap?”

“What does it say on the cup?”

Right. Right. The cup. That existed. Jon turned the little plastic cup so that he could read the sharpie scribbling. “Ok it says chocolate mocha, with caramel.”

“Ok so put the chocolate in the blender.” The chocolate came in a syrup with a pump for convenience. A grande frappuccino used about four pumps of chocolate, and while that seemed like a lot, at least it was easy to measure out. 

“What about the caramel?” Jon let his hand hover over the pump for the caramel sauce.

“Pour it on the side of the cup.”

“Gotcha.” Forgoing the sugary syrup for the moment, Jon went into the ice box, also located underneath the counter, and shoved two scoops of crushed ice into the bender container. “Good to go?” 

“Looks good  _ amigo. _ ”

Once he got that approval, Jon threw the lid on the blender, set it up on it’s little electric pedestal, and braced himself before pressing the button. He totally didn’t jump at the sound. Not at all. While that was becoming a hopefully drinkable liquid, Jon did as instructed with the caramel, and set the cup up so that it was good to go. He remembered reading in the instruction manual that for frozen drinks, you should let it sit and mix for about as long as it took to sing Happy Birthday. It was painfully tempting to hum along to the obnoxious tune, but Jon managed to restrain that urge. 

After working the register for about a week and a half now, Jon’s is very proud to announce that he is actually starting to  _ make _ the drinks the Daily Grind serves. Isn’t that just the most exciting thing in the world? A complete thrill and joy, that any and all sixteen year old boys dream to one day be able to do. 

Now, you’re all probably wondering who the grizzly young gentleman with the Spanish accent helping Jon out was? That’s the most important detail of all of this. Clearly. Well, this guy was some dude named Jaime. Last name? No idea. His name tag didn’t say. He was a taller fellow, apparently from El Paso, and he was either eighteen or twenty seven, and that age will likely remain a mystery because Jon was definitely not about to ask. Jaime here had apparently been here for about a year now, and usually worked the night shifts, which is why Jon hadn’t worked with him until now. But, since eventually Jon would need to know how to make every single fancy white-girl drink a coffee shop could offer, he was scheduled to work later shifts because they tended to be less busy. 

With the Happy Birthday song mentally completed, and this choco…. cara….. whatever-the-heck frappuccino fully blended, Jon started the precarious task of pouring the semi-solid back into the cup. He managed to not spill any, which honestly, was a blessing considering how that stupid cup almost tilted over completely the second the lip of the blender put even the slightest pressure on it. Typical. Once that was completed though, Jaime passed Jon a metal canister; the whipped cream. 

God dammit. 

The young teen took the canister in both hands and stared at it for a second. “If I mess up completely, and whipped cream goes everywhere, play Despacito for me.”

Jaime, bless his soul, immediately pulled out his phone and began thumbing through his downloaded music, easily finding the song in his music library. “I got you.”

They shared a nod before Jon braced himself and positioned the nossel over the cup. Now, if you’ve ever messed around with store bought whipped cream -- you know, tipped your head back while your friend pours way too much of the sugary goodness into your mouth to the point where you could probably choke on it. Classic kid stuff -- then you know that mildly frightening sound the can makes before anything comes out. Yeah. Well, this wasn’t Reddi Whip folks. This was a, for some reason, fifty dollar, stainless steel whipped cream dispenser. So imagine the sound your store brand, one-dollar-cheaper whipped cream makes, and multiple it by an elephant stampede. If anyone asks, Jon totally didn’t jump at the sound. 

Nonetheless, Jon somehow managed to get a sizable lump of cream on the drink. A little bit splattered onto his hands, and some of it threatened to fall over the lip of the cup. It wasn’t even close to a spiral, and it definitely didn’t look all that pretty, but it was nothing a little caramel and chocolate drizzle couldn’t fix. Mission successful; Despacito cancelled. 

“Honestly, that’s pretty impressive.” Jaime commented as he slammed a domed lid on the drink, and walked it over to the pick-up counter, shouting the name on the cup as he put it down. “Some people take a few tries to get it right. 

Jon put the used blender into the sink to clean it out real fast. “I honestly have no idea how that went so well. I was imagining the thing exploding on me.”

“Usually they don’t explode… Usually.” The expression on Jaime face showed that he had  _ seen _ things, and while Jon was morbidly curious, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to ask. “Alright, next two are easy.”

Two more cups were passed to Jon, both calling for cold-brew coffee. No problem. It took all of two minutes to scoop some ice into each cup and pour in the joe. He slapped the lids down, and just hoped he pronounced those names correctly. Two girls who looked about early twenties came up to get the drinks. They both looked completely dead inside. Well.... At least overpriced caffeine always has their backs. 

“Next up.” Jaime handed Jon a cup for the next order while he went to make another drink, which judging by the number of sharpie marks on it, was pretty complex. 

A white, paper cup. Who in the ever loving heck was ordering a hot drink right now? Sure, the sun was just about down, and the building was air conditioned, but it had been a ninety degree day -- roughly thirty-two degrees for everyone operating with the metric system, and three-hundred and five degrees for all the chemists out there. Unfortunately, Jon accidently let a, “Who is ordering a hot latte in this heat wave?” slip out.

“I didn’t realize this shop judged their customer’s orders.”

Oh sugar honey iced tea.

A quick turn of the head revealed a young man standing by the pick-up counter, with an eyebrow raised and an unamused expression on his face. It wasn’t hard to recognize this guy. He came in just about every morning, usually ordered the exact same soy vanilla latte, and was always impeccably dressed. Did that mean Jon remembered his name? Of course not. But one bonus to Jon completely messing up, is that he was still holding the cup in his hand. He spared a quick glance down at the scribble of handwriting to read the name; Damian. Got it. Attempt to remember that one Kent.

“Sorry.” Jon apologize while he poured the appropriate amount of soy milk into a metal steaming pitcher. “I didn’t mean to say that one out loud.”

“Ah, so you only silently judge me.” This fellow, Damian, apparently, shifted his over-the-shoulder briefcase so he could slip a black, textured leather wallet into the pocket of his slacks. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” This was incredibly awkward. The faster he made this drink, the faster he could he out of this situation. He set the pitcher up in the milk steamer, and held the handle as the pressed the button to activate it. “Don’t you get hot though?”

This Damian guy didn’t even shrug. “Hot lattes are much better than cold ones. Besides, I don’t need ice diluting it.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Jon looked into the pitcher. It didn’t quite look like how he’d seen others steam milk before, but he couldn’t figure out if that was because he had very little idea of what he was doing, or just that it was a different kind of milk. “Uh, Jaime, does this look right?” 

The other barista peaked over from where he was. “Looks like it needs thirty more seconds,  _ ese _ .”

Jon nodded and went back to steaming milk. Really, it was quite an entertaining pastime. Super fun. You should totally try it. 

“Have you ever made a latte before?”

“I’ve made like, four.” There was a very good chance that Jon really shouldn’t be telling a customer this. But hey, as long as the drink got made right, then all’s well that ends well.

There was a quiet hum from the young man on the other side of the counter. This knew information seemed to make the guy much more interested in what Jon was doing. “I’m going to warn you right now, if you mess, I will make you remake it.”

Oh great. One of  _ those _ . “Welp. Thanks for making this that much more stressful.” Jon rolled his eyes as he pulled the metal pitcher away from the steamer. He made sure to whip the nozzle before he left the machine. He relocated the paper cup, and brought it over to the home of all the different flavored syrups. It was slowly becoming his home too at this point. “Two pumps or three?”

“Two and a half.”

It wasn’t supposed to be a slam, but Jon might as well have slammed the cup down on the counter and turned to face this guy. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

A mischievous smile peaked at the corners of -- Jon glanced at the name of the cup again -- Damian’s mouth. “You tell me.”

There were a few seconds of Jon just staring at this customer before turning back to the syrups. “You’re getting three.” He didn’t turn to see if this Damian fellow was going to complain or not before quickly pumping three shots of vanilla into the cup and pouring the steaming milk in. Next was the actual caffeine content. The side of the cup called for a double shot, which, honestly, was scary. It was eight o’clock at night. Most people didn’t even mess with one shot of espresso after four in the afternoon, let alone as the sun went down. “Do you… Have a late night ahead of you or something?”

“No. Why?”

“Uh...huh…” The espresso changed the color of the drink a bit, but for the most part it was still pretty white. Jon grabbed a metal stir rod and made sure the vanilla syrup was actually dissolved into the hot mess of a latte. Once he was certain he ran through his checklist in his head for how to make one of these, and was pretty sure he did it right. A solid seventy five percent sure. Well… Maybe more like seventy percent… But hey that was more than fifty and at this point, isn’t that all you can really ask for from a guy? He fitted a lid on around the lip of the cup before placing it on the counter. 

A quick reminder to those just joining, this Damian fellow is standing less than a foot away from the pick-up counter. He also very much so knows that this is his drink. He certainly knows that Jon just finished it. But you see, the problem here, is that Jon inherited his father’s horrible sense of humor. Which means that he thinks things that are definitely not funny, are absolutely hilarious. One of those things that he just thinks is about the funniest thing he’s thought of all day, is to, as he places the to-go cup on the counter, so very loudly call out, “Order up for a Dame-ee-in!” and look around as if he totally didn’t know that the man in question was standing right there. Of course, this earned a very unamused glance from the man, who just took his coffee and gave this look like the thought Jon was a complete and utter idiot.  

“Why.”

That was all Damian said. It wasn’t even a question. Just a statement. Jon couldn’t have asked for a better reaction. 

The young barista-in-training just shrugged, a stupid smile on his face. He really needed a hobby. “Well, do I need to remake it, or do I pass the test?”

Damian pulled the cup closer to him. He seemed to sigh when he felt the warmth between his hands. Huh. Maybe the guy just ran cold or something? “Give it a minute so I don’t burn my tongue.”

“Oh great. Well, I’ll be here.” Jon pushed away from the counter and picked up the next cup on the line. Another frappuccino, although this one was just straight caramel. Easy enough now that he’d made one before. He recreated the exact steps he did earlier, forgoing the chocolate this time. Of course, curiosity seriously killed this cat; that, and the combination of Jon just really not knowing how to shut his damned mouth. “Speaking of ‘here’, you really do come here often, huh?”

“Are you trying pick-up lines on me now?” 

Woah, woah, woah, woah,  _ woah. _ That was  _ certainly _ not what was happening here. Jon coughed at the counter question. “Definitely not my intention.” Maybe he could just stick his head in the blender. “I was just asking cause you come here a lot in the mornings too.”

“I usually come in two or three times a day.” 

Holy caffeine addiction Batman!

“Wow. You must really like the coffee here.” Jon pumped lost count of how many pumps of caramel sauce he put in the drink he was currently working on, but decided to put in one extra one for goodluck. 

“Places like this are always better than chains.” Damian passed his cup between hands and watched as Jon braved the dreaded whipped cream dispenser again. This time went exactly as well as the first. 

Jon just frowned at the job, before covering it in caramel drizzle, forcing a lid on it, and calling the name on it as he dropped it on the counter. “So, do I get the verdict yet?”

A half-huff, half-laugh escaped from the suited-up male as he lifted his drink to his lips. He took a long sip, which normally would be a good sign, but Jon wasn’t about to celebrate just yet. The edge of the plastic lid rested on Damian’s lower lip as the male seemed to think over his opinion on the freshly brewed drink. “You know,” a smile tugged at his mouth. “This is pretty good.”

“Yeah?” Hearing that probably shouldn’t be so exciting, but it was the first time a customer had actually complimented something Jon made. This must be how a dog feels when you call them a ‘good boy’. “So I didn’t offend your taste buds so much that you’ll yell for the manager then threaten to ‘take your money elsewhere’?”

The amused expression stayed on Damian’s face. “I would never do such a thing.” The man took another sip of his drink. “But no. I’ll definitely be back.”

“Cool. Don’t be a stranger next time.”

“Will you be able to remember my name?”

“I will certainly do my darndest.” Jon raised his right hand and put his left over his heart, as if to swear by it.

“Until next time then.” Damian nodded and turned towards the exit.

“See ya next time!” Jon didn’t hesitate to hop back into his work. There was still three hours before closing, and he seriously had to practice making these drinks. He turned and saw three more cups lined up for orders. 

Right. Time to get to it.


	4. Closing Up Shop

Everyone always seems to say that living in a city must be pretty great. Metropolis in particular was somehow rated one of the top ten best places to live in the United States, according to Buzzfeed of course.To an extent, it was definitely a decent city; on average it was pretty modern, relatively clean, predominantly tourist free -- so long as you avoided downtown -- and while it wasn’t exactly crime-free, it was better than Gotham City, and at the end of the day, isn’t that all you can really ask for? What was the biggest perk to living in the city? Well according to the internet, it was one of three things:

  1. The night life
  2. Diversity
  3. How close everything was



Seeing as he was only sixteen, Jon wasn’t really able to say much on the nightlife. The bar at the Mexican restaurant his parents liked was usually pretty busy though, and there was a british pub he would pass on his way to and from school that was always had a crowd during sports games. The city was definitely diverse though. That’s just what happened when eleven million people all lived within the same four hundred square miles. Now, branching off that last point there… While the people were definitely sardine-packed on top of each other in thirty story apartment buildings, nothing in Metropolis was exactly “close”. Could you walk to everything? Well, if you were a teenager without a car, and with enough foresight to leave two hours in advance to make sure you got to where you need to be ontime, then yes. Yes you could. But those who didn’t have the best walking shoes in the world, and were in the good enough graces of their parents to have a prepaid OneTrip card, would take public transit.

Jon gathered up his backpack in his left arm, keeping on of the straps awkwardly on his right shoulder. His right arm reached above him to grab onto the metal bar to stability. His grip tightened until his knuckles were white as the bus jolted to a stop, allowing another patron to somehow board the vehicle. It was a tight fit, but that’s just what happened when you rode the bus during ‘peak hours’. He kept his eyes trained on the LED sign that displayed what stop was next. Three more stops.

There was a ding as another passenger signaled their desire to get off, and honestly, Jon was low-key offended. How dare someone else need to get off this bus, therefore making it take even longer for the bus to reach Jon’s stop. How dare the bus take two minutes to slow down, stop at the corner, let this person off, then start moving again. It was quite rude. All he wanted to do was get to work in time for his shift, and instead he was left feeling pretty attacked.

Finally he saw the name of his stop flash on the screen, an instantly yanked on the nearest cable to request the bus to stop. The bus pulled up to the sign for his stop, and Jon managed to push his way past other bodies to the front exit. The latest internet memes had guilted him pretty hard, so he made sure to thank the driver as he stepped off. He was instantly hit was a have a humid heat, and hated the fact that he was wearing long pants right now. But the Daily Grind was only a block away, so with a quick adjustment of his backpack on his shoulder, Jon headed in the direction of his work.

He took his sweet time. It was currently forty fifteen, and his shift didn’t start until four thirty. When he did finally arrive at the coffee shop, there was still nine minutes left before he could clock in.

Even though Jon wasn’t a big fan of coffee, he had to admit that he loved walking into the coffee shop and getting assaulted with the smells; roasted coffee beans and sugar were the predominant scents, but sometimes in the morning the whole store would smell like freshly baked muffins.

Jon nodded his hello to his three coworkers behind the counter before going through the employee entrance to the back area. One of them was scheduled to leave the second he clocked in, so he moved quick to store his backpack in one of six cubby compartments by the storage shelves. He quickly jammed the hem of his black tee shirt into his pants. Before working here, the sixteen year old had never noticed how two articles of clothing could both be “black”, but somehow be completely different shades of black. It wasn’t until he tried wearing black-on-black for the first time that he noticed that the shirt that he always thought was just, well… _black_ , looked almost faded in comparison to his jeans which now looked like they had a navy tint to them. It didn’t help that the only belt he owned was a dark brown, probably fake leather. It threw off the entire look, and really, it just wasn’t attractive. He hated that he noticed this. It made him feel like he was becoming more like his mother. But now Jon exclusively wore his khakis to work.

Once all clothing was situated, the teen pulled one of the communal aprons off a hook on the wall, slipped it over his head and tied it off around his waist. It took a little digging through the small pocket of his backpack to find his nametag, but he quickly secured it into place before heading out onto the line.

“Now hold on there mister.”

Oh man do _not_ call me mister.

Jon turned around to see Jocelyn, the store manager, with a smile way too bright for a Friday afternoon. “Holding?”

“We’ve had a bit of a change to the uniform.” The older lady motioned for Jon to follow her to her little makeshift office. It was a small room, that honestly was probably just meant to be a closet. It just barely fit a filing cabinet, a rolling chair, and a desk that looked pretty plain, but a true IKEA connoisseur would easily be able to pick it out as the Arkelstorp in black. There was a box on top of the Arkelstorp that clearly hadn’t been broken into yet. “You don’t have to start wearing them today if you don’t want to, but starting Monday they’re going to be mandatory.”

Jon was just about to ask what in heaven’s name he was about to be cursed with when Jocelyn pulled two fashion disasters out of the box. Two visor hats, both brown to match the aprons, hung in her hands. She passed them over to Jon who hesitated to take them. Upon an unfortunate inspection, one of them had _The Daily Grind_ embroidered across the front in a font matching the decal printed on the windows, while the other had an ugly clipart style coffee cup stitched into the center. In the words of a Vine he saw the other day: “You are so _fucking ugly! You. Fucking. Ugly!_ ”

Sorry for cursing mom. Please recognize that it was only to for quotation accuracy. As a reporter, you should understand.

“Take your pick!” Oh boy, oh boy. Picking between vomit and poop was always such a pleasant experience. Jon hesitated before picking the one with the café’s name on it. Screw black on black. This was definitely a fashion crime.

“So we have to wear these now?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.

“Yes. Yes you do.” Dammit. “We’ll be getting baseball caps in by the end of next week though. Once those come in, you can pick whichever you prefer.”

“...Got it.” Jon adjusted the velcro on the back of the visor before forcing it onto his head. Tan from Queer Eye would be so disappointed.

“Now go clock in and get started! I’ll be heading out once I finish these orders.”

Jon only nodded before heading out onto the floor. Well this was a… _lovely_ way to start a shift. He quickly went over to the open register and clocked in so he could formally start his shift. One of his coworkers immediately perked up and rushed to clock out. The guy barely said goodbye before he was bolting out of the store.

“We had a weird morning _ese_.” Jaime, the glorious bastard, leaned against the coffee counter, tossing chocolate covered espresso beans into the air and catching them in his mouth like goldfish.

“Define weird?”

“Sixteen drink online order.” Terra, a fellow “desperate for money” teenager who worked here joined in the conversation. She was about a year older than Jon. One of those “outdoorsy” types that, honestly, Jon could appreciate. The girl rocked a blond undercut, but for the life of him Jon couldn’t figure out if it was her natural hair color or not. Normally he wouldn’t question it, what with the freckles splattered all over her face and the blue eyes, but the girl’s eyebrows were more of a brown. So she either filled them in everyday -- sounds like way too much of a hassle, but staying on fleek was very important to some people -- or she was on top of those root touch-ups.

“Excuse me?” They didn’t get online orders often, but when they did, they were usually four items _max_.

“They were all different too. I wanted to die.” Terra wasn’t exactly known for her customer service skills. Usually when she worked she would handle making the drinks, and maintain limited interaction with the actual patrons of the café.

“That… That honestly blows.” Jon thanked his lucky stars he was working the closing shift today.

“Ok,” Jaime folded up his little back of chocolate beans and tucked it into the pocket on his apron before pushing off of the counter. “Shift huddle now that Jon’s here.” Neither of the other two teens moved from their spots. That was to be expected. There wasn’t exactly a whole lot of space behind on this side of the register. “It’s just the three of us tonight. So here’s the game plan. Make every order _rápido_ and clean as we go. Terra, you’re on hot drinks and baked goods _chica_ . Jon, _mi hermano_ , you’re on register and clean up for the front. I’ll be on cold drinks and restock. Any questions?”

“Yes.” Jon raised his hand.

“What’s up?”

Jon pointed to his new visor. “What the heck and why?”

“Very good question.” Jaime clapped his hands together. “I don’t know. I hate them too. When you quit, you can burn it.”

“Sounds good to me.” Jon took a moment to survey the inside of the coffee shop. There was about three customers total sitting down right now, with no one coming in. Friday afternoons were always weird. Most people just headed straight home the second they were finished with work around here. A few straggling reporters and journalists would stop in for late night energy boosts from the Planet. Part of Jon wondered if maybe his own parents might come through tonight. He knew his mother was in the middle of writing something big for the Sunday paper. She had been talking about all the juicy details -- or at least all that were appropriate for the dinner table -- of a corrupt pharmaceuticals director working through Lex Corp. Of course, Jon was sworn into confidentiality until the article was released. Not that the topic of Big Pharma came up oh so frequently on his Instagram feed and Facebook group chats.

Deciding now was about as good as any, Jon searched around the back until he found a broom and dustpan and began doing a quick sweep through the shop. Normally the floors didn’t get too dirty, save for the inevitable spills. The problem was that floor was made out of one of those oddly textured tiles that just made it so difficult to tell if they were actually dirty or not. Thus began a fun little game of “is that filth, or an artistic choice?”

He got about halfway through the shop before the front door swung open, that obnoxious little chime going off just in case he somehow didn’t notice a whole human being.

Oh.

Wait.

He knew that human being.

“Welcome back.” Jon nodded to Damian, a true regular, as the man pulled the door shut behind him. The teen half-scurried back around the counter to the register so he could take the order. He leaned the broom and dustpan right by his side to he could pick up where he left off in a moment.

“Hello.” The probably older fellow weaved through the line right up to the register. As always, he was prestinely dressed in a well tailored burgundy pants and an off-white dress shirt. A tie matching his pants in color was carefully knotted under the shirt collar. The lighter colors highlighted the natural tan in his skin. Huh. Maybe he was some kind of mixed race? Not one, but two leather satchels hung over the man’s body. “Fancy seeing your here.”

“Hardi har har.” Jon rolled his eyes. “I’m guessing another latte?”

Damian only shook his head. “Dark roast coffee. The largest size you have. Two pumps of caramel. One pump of vanilla. Soy milk instead of creamer.”

“Oh man.” Jon quickly punched in the information for the order into his register. By now he knew not to bother announcing the price for Damian’s drinks. Before anyone could even try to, the guy had his credit card slotted in the chip reader. Jon picked up the appropriately sized cup and marked the order and name before passing the cup back to Terra. “Rough night ahead?”

“You could say that.” Damian patted the top of one of his briefcases. “Just trying to tie up some loose ends for work tonight so I don’t have to be bothered with it over the weekend.”

“Fair enough.” Jon shrugged. “We’ll get that drink for ya in a second.”

“Thank you, as always.” Damian looked like he was about to turn away, but faltered. A dark eyebrow quirked up before the man gesture to his own forehead. “That’s new.”

While Jon would love to swear he had at least a few brain cells floating around in his skull, he honest to God forgot that there was something on his head that wasn’t normally there. It wasn’t until he reached up and felt the fabric of the visor that he remembered he was wearing the stupid article. “Ah. New addition to the uniform.”

“It’s… Interesting.” Code for hideous.

“I don’t know, I think it’s a real fashion statement.” The sarcasm was absolutely dripping from Jon’s voice as he picked up his trusty broomstick and made his way back around the counter, dodging Jaime changing out the coffee filters, to resume sweeping. “I might get seriously attacked to it.”

The expression on this Damian guy’s face was skeptical at best, but he didn’t say anything more on the matter. Instead he waited patiently by the pickup counter. Once his order was deposited on the counter, he picked it up and relocated to a free table away from other patrons. He pulled a laptop and a tablet out of one satchel, and a binder and small stack of folders out of the other. A pen materialized out of his pants pocket, along with a cellphone which he placed down on the table, right by his coffee. Jon didn’t pay it too much mind as he continued to clean.

A handful of customers came and went until about five o’clock when most people were getting off of work, and all hell broke loose. They had a solid one hour rush of people desperate for some way to stay conscious before having to sit through traffic on their drive home. After six thirty it slowed down considerably. By the time the clock hit seven it was practically dead all over again.

Somehow, Damian was still there.

Normally Jon wouldn’t have paid much attention to a customer who stuck around for a few hours. That happened all the time. But there were several reasons why Jon just couldn’t help but pay attention to this.

The first, and foremost really, was that Damian just happened to set up shop at a table very close to a few trash cans that Jon just knew he needed to take out soon or else they’d start overflowing with tossed out cups. He should probably get on that. _Oooooooh_ but he _really_ didn’t want to. It wasn’t too bad yet, and they were only open for another two hours. Saving all the trash until the end of the night was so much better than having to make two total trips. He could probably hold it off a little longer… Probably….

The second reason was much more trivial than that. The guy would probably need a second cup of coffee soon if he was going to stick around all the way until the end. Maybe he wouldn’t get a second drink though. After all, who needs that much caffeine this late at night? That would just be ridiculous. There would be absolutely no hope of sleeping later that night if that was the case. Still, Jon kept an eye on the fellow. Just in case he would need a refill or something.

After what was probably way past a creepy amount of time, and cleaning down all of the counters and unoccupied tables in the shop, went back to the barista station and grabbed a plastic cup. He walked past Terra, who was sitting on top of the coffee bar with Jaime standing next to her, both huddling over one of their phones with an episode of The Office pulled up on the Netflix app. The black haired teen filled said plastic with a scoop of ice and the rest of the way with water. He pressed a lid onto it and grabbed a new straw before making his way over to what had apparently become Damian’s new office. He placed the water cup down on the table, careful to make sure it wouldn’t touch anything else on the table.

“I didn’t order anything.” The man didn’t look up from his laptop as he clicked through a few files he had open.

“Water’s free.” Jon shrugged. He leaned his weight against the arm of the chair opposite Damian’s. “I didn’t know if you’d want a coffee refill or not, but you know. Gotta stay hydrated and all.”

The other male was apparently surprised by the gesture. Damian tore his eyes away from his screen to look at the new drink, then let out a sigh. “Thanks.” He reached for the straw and carefully opened one end of the paper wrapper and slid the plastic out. Once the straw was in the lid of the drink, Damian slowly began to roll the paper wrapper into a tight spiral.

“What are you working on?” Curiosity triumphed over trash-duty.

“Nothing of importance.” The other male shook his head and leaned back in his chair, drawing a long sip of water. “Just a report summarizing my work for the week.”

“Where do you work? Uh, if you don’t mind me asking of course.”

“Wayne Technologies.”

Jon let out a long whistle. “Fancy.” That was a name everyone who was anyone knew. The Wayne Foundation was just about as big of a name as the Daily Planet, Gandhi, and the Kardashians. It was one of those companies that seemed to dabble in just about everything from watches to funding wildlife preserves in the Amazon Rainforest. Even though it was a Gotham based company, they had offices and labs in just about every major city in America, maybe even the world. So it was no surprise that there was a branch here in Metropolis.

For some reason Jon’s comment seemed to amuse Damian. Weird guy. “Barely. It’s technically classified as an internship.” Damian tucked some papers on the table into the folder he had, before opening up one of his briefcases and putting them inside. He did the same with the binder.

“Internship, huh? Wish I had one of those.” Jon crossed his arms low on his chest. He stretched at his stomach through the thick apron hanging off his body, before uncrossing his arms to readjust the knot that held the garment closed. “Although, I guess no matter what I’d probably be fetching coffee for people…”

“I don’t ‘fetch’ coffee.” Damian reached back into his bags and pulled out a folded up newspaper, more specifically, that morning’s copy of the Planet. He unfolded it, revealing that it was already opened up to that day’s crossword. The puzzle was half-filled out.

“Internships and crossword puzzles? Are you a millennial or an old man?” It was quite possible that the joke would very much so be taken the wrong way. Jon could see the Yelp review already: _‘Coffee was good. Service was exilant. I wasn’t a fan of the music. One of their baristas used giving me free water as an excuse to insult my age and appearance. I feel personally attacked. Four out of five stars.’_

Thankfully, Damian instead let out a huff of air that possibly could have turned into a laugh if anything Jon said was ever actually funny. “How old do you think I am?”

“Um…” Welcome to the new game show Can Jon Kent Not Look Like an A**hole and Avoid Offending a Customer. “Early twenties? Maybe like, twenty two?”

The café patron hummed as he took another sip of water. “I’m nineteen actually.”

“Woah. Seriously?” Bad move Kent.

“Is that a surprise?”

“You just seem older.” Shut up Kent.

“How so?”

“Uh, well. I don’t know. You just look and carry yourself like you’d be a lot older than me.” You done messed up Kent.

Damian closed his newspaper over his lap, as if to show that he was committed to this conversation. “How old are you then?”

“I am sixteen.” Jon smiled a bit to himself. “Going on seventeen. Innocent as a rose.”

“The Sound of Music? Interesting choice.”

Jon shrugged. Honestly, thank goodness that reference didn’t just go completely over this guy’s head. That would have been very awkward otherwise. “I’m a sucker for the classics.”

“Maybe you can help with this then.” The crossword puzzle made a reappearance. “Singing in the Rain Character, ______ Lamont?”

“L-i-n-a.”

The older teen penciled in the answer. “I’m impressed.”

“So do you actually read the paper, or just play the games?”

“I read it every morning.” Damian seemed to find another answer in his crossword. “I prefer the Gotham Time’s though.” Ah. So he was a Gothamite. “The Planet is fairly interesting though.”

“Hah. Just wait until Sunday.” Jon couldn’t help the comment.

Damian looked up in confusion. “What happens Sunday?”

“Oh, uh.” Hm. Awkward. “There’s just going to be a big story. Make sure you read the front page.”

“And how, pray tell, do you know this?”

It was probably weird to have such an elongated conversation with a customer. Jon really should get back to work. But no one new had come in yet. Jaime and Terra were here too. So this was totally fine… Right? It’s not like there was anything better to do.

“My, uh.” Jon felt his face flush. “My mom’s writing it.”

Damian seemed to be very intrigued by this. “Really? Any name I’d know?”

“Uh, well, yeah actually. Probab--”

Of course, that bastard of a door chime went off. The front door swung open and a group of thirty-somethings all waltzed in, talking loudly about something no one could care less about.

“Well, that’s my queue.” Jon pushed himself off the arm of the chair he was resting on and hurried back to his position at the register. Both of his coworkers seemed equally as annoyed as they paused their episode and packed the cellular device away to prepare to make the drinks as quickly as possible, and go right back to their episode.

Four frappuccinos later, and Jon was looking back over to the trash cans in the store. Those damned customers had thrown a bunch of their personal trash in, sending the containers over the edge at last. Just his luck. Jon grabbed a few clean trash bags and went to replace the contents of the cans. He grumbled as he did it. Why wouldn’t he? As he gathered up the different bags so he could carry them out to the dumpster in one trip, he noticed that this Damian fellow was starting to pack his things up.

“I didn’t get the name of your mother.” Damian said as he fastened his briefcase shut. “I want to make sure I read her article.”

“I don’t think you’ll miss it.” Jon heaved the garbage over his shoulder and headed over to the exit. He bumped it open with his hip, and prepared to awkwardly shimmy out of the building.

“Still.”

Jon shrugged, which did less to convey his emotions and did more to mess up the position of the trash over his shoulder. “Lois Lane.”

Rather than sticking around to see Damian’s reaction, because seriously, knowing that everyone on the East Coast knew his mother’s name was really kind of embarrassing when you were a teenage boy, Jon scuttled out. He let the door swing shut behind him.

The garbage container was around the block, by the entrance to the parking lot. During the day they didn’t have to empty their own trash. The building’s custodial workers would come by and take care of that for them. But at night it made those good worker’s lives easier if the little café just handled their own garbage. It was easy enough.

By the time Jon made it back to the Grind, Damian was gone. Terra and Jaime had finished their episode, and were beginning to shut down the coffee makers and various other fancy machines. It was about forty minutes until they were officially closed, and if anyone else walked in Jon would be completely ready to just pretend they were out of everything.


	5. The Struggles of an All-American Homo

Jon was roughly five-foot-nine-and-a-quarter-inches tall last time he checked. A year ago, he was still considered tall amongst all his classmates who hadn’t yet hit their puberty growth spurts. With his seventeenth birthday just around the corner, he was now considered to be of average height for his age bracket. If his father’s six-foot-three stature was any indication, there was a very good chance that Jon was just going to keep growing. Of course, there had always been the fear that he would get the short end of the stick, literally, and his mother’s genes would outweigh his father’s in the height department. But he had safely surpassed his mother, and now stood two inches taller than her.

So, now that we’ve established that Jon isn’t exactly a small child, there’s just one question that the teen just couldn’t quite wrap his mind around…

Why did he still have to stand on his tippy-toes to reach the Lucky Charms?

For as long as Jon could remember, his mother had always put the “healthy” -- translation: bad -- breakfast cereals on an easy to reach shelf in the kitchen pantry. This included; Cheerios, his mother’s Special K with red berries, his father’s Fiber One, and Target’s “Market Pantry” brand shredded wheat. The fun cereals? All of Jon’s favorite cereals? The Lucky Charms? The Frosted Flakes? The Cinnamon Toast Crunch? Those were all oh so mysteriously kept on the very top shelf next to a glass jar filled with flour that hasn’t been touched in four years, a box that contained Lois’s emergency dark chocolate, and a Royal Dansk cookie tin that only contained sewing supplies and stamps. Sure. The idea was probably that his parents really wanted him to eat healthy. But if they didn’t want his first meal of the day to be happy, they should just not buy his favorite cereals at all.

Jon sat at on a wooden stool at the kitchen island, lazily shoveling the marshmallow bites into mouth while thumbing through a few apps on his phone. It was just barely after eleven am, and he’d been awake for a grand total of eighteen minutes and thirty two seconds. God he loved his days off. One weird thing about working customer service that Jon hadn’t exactly been prepared for is that “weekends” didn’t exactly exists. He still got two days off a week, but they were never consecutive.

Today was a Monday, and he got to blissfully sleep through his parents’ rush to work this morning. Normally he would just spend his day off with his butt firmly planted on the couch binge watching Netflix while aimlessly tapping away at Fortnite on his phone. But today, the teen actually had plans.

After finishing his cereal, and properly putting his bowl away in the dishwasher, he headed back over to his room to get changed. As he pulled his sleep shirt over his head, he heard his phone buzz on top of his dresser. Jon kicked off his pajama pants before checking the new notification.

**Kathy**

_u better not have 4gotten 2day_

Jon quickly thumbed out a response.

_Yeah. i’ll be ready in 30?_

**Kathy**

****

Jon quickly threw on a pair of faded red shorts. Admittedly, it was now weird to not wear long pants since he started working at that coffee shop. It took a bit of digging through his drawers to find a shirt he actually wanted to wear. He went back and forth in his head, debating between a tank top and a regular t shirt. The big reason for this internal deliberation was mostly the farmers tan that was getting darker and darker as the summer went on. Having grown up on a farm in the bucktoothed, middle-of-nowhere Hamilton County, the tanline didn’t bother Jon in the slightest. But Metropolis people were so weird about appearances.

Screw it.

Jon grabbed his second favorite tank, a light gray one with different shades of light blue stripes across the chest, and threw it on. He slid his glasses on before looking around the room for his keys and wallet. He really should pay better attention to where he was putting those. He was starting to turn into his father. Scary.

Once those items were secure in his pockets, the teenaged boy poked into the bathroom to take a look at his reflection. Black hair stuck out in a few different directions, so he tried to tame it real quick. Jon got his hands wet before combing his fingers through the locks, hoping that the water might tame a few of his cow licks. Unfortunately, while it did work a little, Jon’s hair was really overgrown. The teen frowned at himself before tracking back to his bedroom to find one of his baseball caps. The blue one with the big red “H” for Hamilton’s minor league baseball team was the first one he touched, so he went with it, jamming it on his head. He tracked down his sneakers before deeming himself ready to go.

He shot Kathy a quick text that he was leaving and headed out the front door of his family’s apartment.

Hm? Kathy? Oh. Well, Kathy Branden is Jon’s best friend. They were neighbors back when the Kent’s still lived on the farm, and had grown up together until Clark and Lois decided to move out of the suburbs and into downtown Metropolis. But Jon and Kathy had always stayed in contact. Their family's were close, so they would constantly visit one another over summer and winter vacation. Normally Jon would go over to her place, it was a big house on fifteen acres of land, therefore much more accommodating to two budding teenagers. But the Kent’s did have a spare bedroom which was always open if the girl wanted to come over. Kathy was a full year and some change older than Jon though, which meant she was a full fledged legal adult. Terrifying really. But this meant she had a car and everything. So sometimes she would just drive down for the day.

**Kathy**

_2 blocks away_

Jon stood outside his apartment building, leaning against a stone pillar by the entrance. Kathy wasn’t one of those people who said “two blocks” and meant “I’m leaving now.” Oh no. She was likely very close. He considered texting her to tell her he was outfront when suddenly there were a few very loud honks coming from a white Toyota Corolla that was pulling up the the curb.

The window rolled down, revealing a strawberry blond girl with dark aviator sunglasses in the driver’s seat. “Get in loser. We’re going shopping.”

A laugh instantly bubbled out of Jon as he pushed off the wall, stuffing his phone into his pocket. The boy practically launched himself into the car. “Is that really what we’re doing, or did you just really want to make that joke?” Jon buckled himself in before Kathy pulled out into traffic.

“Look Bae, I know you’re probably all used to all these fancy city stores you got out here, but I can’t survive of strip malls and outlet stores.” They got to a red light at the end of the block, and Kathy quickly reached for her phone, which was plugged into an aux cord, then handed the device over to Jon. “Can you set the GPS?”

“Sure thing.” They went to the New Troy mall just about every time Kathy visited. It was tradition. Jon typed in the location to Google Maps, and set it to start their course. An automated voice immediately announced an upcoming left turn over the sound of Florida Georgia Line playing through the car speakers. “Can I change the playlist?”

“Jonathan Samuel Kent if this city has dried you of your love for country music then I’m turning this damned car around.”

“Love you too Kathy.” Jon opened up the music folder on the girl’s phone, going over to her long list of playlists she made for just about every occasion.

  * Jam Session
  * Road Trip
  * I Hate School
  * YAAAAAASSSS QUEEN
  * Summer 2016
  * Summer 2017
  * Summer 2018
  * Circa Early 2000s
  * FUCK
  * I Was Born in the Wrong Generation
  * I Swear to Drunk I’m Not God
  * Songs so Red White and Blue You’ll Pop an America Boner



Honestly, Kathy is an icon.

Jon settled on Circa Early 2000s. Immediately the intro to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since you’ve been gone” blared through the speakers. Kathy grinned and turned the volume up a few notches, landing on twenty seven. An odd number. The heathen. Jon leaned over to turn the volume knob that one tick so it was comfortably settled on twenty eight.

“So how’s life in Hamilton? I haven’t seen you since your high school graduation.” Jon asked, leaning down to fix his shoelaces on his left foot.

“Same old, same old.” The blond girl shrugged. She leaned back in her seat, keeping her right hand on the wheel as she rolled down her window and leaned her left elbow out of the car. “My grandpa’s all in a tizzy because I’m heading to college soon.”

“Yeah I bet he’s freaking.” Kathy’s grandfather was her only family. She had been living with him almost her entire life, and the two were very close. Between the two of them, they somehow managed to run a dairy farm for as long as Jon can remember. That was all going to change when Kathy moved away for college though. She had gotten into Syracuse University -- Go Orange -- on a scholarship for their school of agriculture. Even though Kathy loved coming to the city, she was definitely a country girl at heart. There was a very good chance that she was just going to take over the family farm eventually, but she was pragmatic and wanted to keep her options open. Her grandfather was younger than Ma and Pa Kent, but that still meant he was getting pretty up there to still be running a dairy farm alone.

“I think he’s going to hire some of the boys down the street to take care of the cows when I leave.” Kathy shrugged. “I’ll probably help ‘im break them in over the summer.”

“Give ‘em hell.” Jon had a Vietnam War flashback to the summers he used to help out, and the spartan-esque way his best friend took charge over his every action.

“So…” Kathy grabbed her phone and skipped the next song. “How’s life in the closet?”

Oh boy.

The younger teen slumped into his seat with a sigh. He adjusted the lip of his cap so it tipped up. “Same old, same old.”

“So no mystery man has come by to sweep you off your feet yet?”

There was no helping the chuckle that left Jon’s lips. “God I wish.”

After another turn, they pulled into a parking lot for the mall. The GPS did a weird little chime, the automated voice announcing they had reached their final destination. Thankfully enough, it was a Monday, so the parking lot was relatively empty.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” Translation: She really wanted it to be her business. “but weren’t you planning on coming out soon? Pride month and all?”

Damn the gays and their plethora of rainbow flags in June. “I don’t know… There’s just never been a good time for it.”

Once the car was pared, Jon reached behind his seat to grab Kathy’s purse for her before they both got out of the car. Before Jon could round the car, Kathy was in front of him. She grabbed the lip of his cap and turned it around so it was facing backwards.

“It makes you look more gay.”

“Lol.” Yup. That’s right. He just said “lol” out loud. “Thanks.” Jon lifted the hat, fixing his hair underneath, before putting it back on, keeping it facing back as per Kathy’s “suggestion”. The pair of teenagers then began to walk towards the mall.

New Troy mall was massive. At full five stories tall, it was a full three million square feet of shopping, food courts, and recreational activities. The size of the mall was best summed up by the fact that there were two different movie theaters inside of it, with a very strong, almost gang like divide between the people who used which theater.

“But I saw you go to Pride this year. You posted pictures on Facebook.”

Jon shrugged. “I just went with some friends from school. Metropolis Pride is such a big event. Literally everyone goes, so Mom and Dad didn’t think anything of it.”

“Do you think they know?” Kathy asked as they passed through the automatic doors into the commercial paradise.

“Well, considering they’ve never seen my Tumblr, and I’m not exactly walking around decked out in Target’s #pride collection, I’m gonna say no?” It was a pretty safe bet, but with Jon’s parents, it was so hard to tell what they knew and didn’t.

Some people could write a fifty page dissertation about how they knew about their sexualities their entire lives. How they struggled with coming to terms with it, and pushed themselves so deep into the closet that they were in Narnia. Jon wasn’t exactly like that. He was more of a “homosexuality was fifteen percent off at Walmart” kind of gay.

This little discovery had occured all of a year ago when he went to a baseball game with his dad. Fifteen year old Jon-o had gone to go get funnel cake in the fifth inning. There was been a guy, probably older than him by a few years, standing behind him in line for the concession stand. Jon could still conjure up the image of well toned calves, extremely tight fitting pants, and a v-neck that could put Madonna to shame. It was also very important to note that the man had been _very_ obviously flirting with Jon. We’re talking every bad pick-up line you can possibly imagine.

_“Wow. There must be something wrong with my eyes. I can’t take them off of you.”_

Maybe you should go get that checked out.

_“Are you a parking ticket? Because you’ve got fine written all over you.”_

I can’t drive without an adult in the car.

_“Are you from Tennessee? Because you’re the only ten I see.”_

Kansas actually.

_“I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”_

Um…. No.

Admittedly, Jon had found the cheese lines pretty funny. He didn’t necessarily flirt back, but by the time he had retrieved his deep-fried treat and wondered back towards the stands, he was mulling over the encounter in his head. Played it back on repeat. At fifteen years old, he started to realize that this was the first time someone displaying interest in him didn’t make him uncomfortable. It was also the first time such an interaction had come from another guy.

A few nights of clearing his internet search history later, and Jon was at least eighty percent sure he was a teenager of the homosexual variety. Kathy had been the first, and only, person he told. Seeing as their both from the same small town, he had been scared of judgement, and the potential of losing his best friend. Instead, she had been overjoyed. They next time they got together they binge watched G.B.F, Geography Club, Pride, and as many episodes of RuPaul’s Drag Race as they could possibly fit in. For research. Obviously.

Did Lois and Clark know? That really was the million dollar question. As of right now, Jon honestly couldn’t say. They were both reporters, and Lois more than anyone was known for sniffing out a story from across the nation. Was Jon worried his parents wouldn’t accept him? Well, yeah. That fear was always going to be there until proven otherwise. Any queer teenager, even in the most vocally accepting family, was at least a little bit scared of the potential rejection. While Jon knew his parents both loved him, and knew they were both extremely liberal individuals, living in what was probably the most LGBT+ friendly city on the east coast, he just wasn’t quite ready to tell them.

For right now, he let Kathy grab onto his wrist and pull him through the mall. Shopping with her was like running around with a small child. She wanted to pop into just about every single store, and look through every rack and hanger so she was certain she saw just about everything. The makeup stores were her favorite. While Jon wasn’t oblivious to how expensive that junk can get, he had never seen someone so willingly drop sixty dollars on three items so quickly. That being said, that eye shadow pallet _did_ have some pretty nice colors.

Jon had gotten his first paycheck just last Friday, which meant he actually had more than two digits in his bank account for once. Most of that money immediately went into his savings — that truck wasn’t going to buy itself — but he had kept a hundred for himself to have fun with. He managed to find himself a new pair of headphones to replace his old ones that stopped working in one ear.

After both teenagers had spent what was arguably more money than they should have — No Kathy, “treat yo self” does not justify you impulse buying a heated blanket — they decided to stop in at the food court. It was roughly time for dinner, so there was a decent amount of crowd, but nothing outrageous yet. They walked around the food court twice to collect free samples from every stand in order to “make a decision” before they split up so one could get in line for Auntie Anne’s, and the other went to get a plate of mango chicken fried rice. The regrouped at a table for four.

“So,” Jon shoveled a plastic fork full of rice into his mouth. “When you go to college, are you going to be a party animal, or are you actually going to like, study?”

“Jonathan Kent.” Kathy put down the large Orange Crush they were sharing between the two of them. “I will be nothing less than a high functioning alcoholic and I am ashamed that you would think any less of me.”

“Ah. My apologies.” Now folks, Jon is a very good child and obviously has never done anything to break the law hint hint wink wink nudge nudge, but in a purely hypothetical situation, if money were to be used in a “bet”-like capacity, Jon would put every penny he had to his name that Kathy could drink anyone in Hamilton county, and in their age bracket, under the table. This girl had the liver of a whale. “I’m sure all the frat boys will be impressed.”

“God I hope not.” The strawberry blond picked off a piece of soft pretzel. “After living in hick-ville for so long, I’m done with everyone who can bench press higher than their IQ.”

“But they can be so nice to look at.” The comment slipped out with absolutely no control. “You know, in a Warwick Rowers 2016 Calendar kind of way.”

“What month?”

“September.”

“Hm. Fair.” Kathy put a piece of pretzel and mango chicken on a fork together, decided to experiment with the flavors, but if the expression was any indication, it did not go as planned. “I’ve always been more of a May 2017 gal myself.”

Jon laughed at that. It was always fun to be able to joke freely about these sorts of things. “Just make sure if you find a cute guy, to introduce me to some of his friends when I come visit.”

“What. Not seeing enough cute hipsters at work?” The jab came with a kick on the ankle from under the table.

“Oh, there are plenty of hot guys who come through. But most of them are easily my dad’s age, and I’m not exactly looking to entertain an older gentleman.”

“Why not?” Kathy stole the drink cup and took a large sip. “Find yourself a sugar daddy who’ll buy that car for you.”

“If I have a sugar daddy, and the best he’s buying me in a ten year old used car, we have a different issue altogether.” Seriously though. If he was going to commit to an _arrangement_ , he wasn’t about to let himself get cheated. That being said, he by no means wanted to be in any kind of anything with a silver fox. No way, José.”

“Well hurry up and date someone before Clark and Lois meet up with Grandpa to set up our arranged marriage.” A running joke between them. “I’ll happily play fake girlfriend at school events for you, but I draw the line at people actually thinking we’re dating.”

“Oh, Mom and Dad definitely think we’re dating.”

“Exactly.” Kathy waved her plastic fork around. “So hurry up and prove them wrong. In your own time. When you’re comfortable of course…. But you best do it before I get a real boyfriend and everyone thinks I cheated on you or something!”

“Yes ma’am.” Jon tipped the bill of his baseball cap.

“There’s seriously no one you’re interested in?”

Jon thought it over. He hadn’t exactly interacted with a whole lot of people since the summer has started. At least, no one regularly. “Nope.”

* * *

 

Jon sunk into the cushions of the living room couch, one arm wrapped around a bowl of salt and vinegar chips that was precariously balanced on the arm of the sofa. The teen kept his feet tucked underneath his body, his mother’s ‘no feet on the coffee table’ rule ringing loudly in the back of his mind. He’d broken that rule before. Never again.

It was a quiet night after he said good bye to Kathy. Even though it was nearing eight o’clock, his father still wasn't home. He knew that his old man was probably couped up in one of the meeting rooms at the Daily Planet, going over every tiny speck of information he could piece together for the article he was working on. It was a complete mystery if or when he’d make it home tonight. Everyone always talks about late nights on the job for cops and doctors, no one ever seems to talk about late nights out for journalists.

So it was just Jon and his mother tonight. She was over in the kitchen, going through her nightly routine of setting up the coffee maker so a fresh pot would be ready the next morning, when Jon hear a, truthfully not uncommon, curse word sound off. “Jon, honey?”

The teen tipped his head back over the back of the couch. “Yeah?”

“I accidentally got full coffee beans instead of pre-ground at the store the other day.” The horror. “Do you think you could real quick run to the store and grab a bag?”

“Sure thing.” Jon quickly grabbed the television remote and paused the series he was watching on Netflix before he turned turned the TV off all together. “Just give me a sec.” His socks from the day before were still bunched up on the carpet on the other side of the couch -- sorry Mom -- so he quickly lunged for them, then threw those on his feet. The teen slipped his cell phone in his pocket before getting his lazy behind off of the couch and heading over to the door of the apartment, where his sneakers were haphazardly left earlier that day. Jon crouched to force his feet into the shoes and tie his laces.

“My purse should be right by the door.” His mother called out again. “Just take twenty from my wallet.”

“Kay!” Her purse was, in fact, in its usual spot, slumped on the ground. He reached in and dug around the random trinkets, receipts, notebooks, and many miscellaneous pens and pencils to find the bright red faux-leather wallet. He plucked the twenty dollar bill out, and gingerly placed it back in the wallet. He double checked that he put the wallet back. Triple checked. Once he was sure he definitely put the wallet back in his mother’s purse, he grabbed his house key off one of the hooks on the wall, slipped the money in his pocket, and quadruple checked that he put his mother’s wallet back in her purse. “Can I pick up ice cream too?”

“Don’t we have ice cream already?” His mother peaked her head out of the kitchen.

“Dad finished it off last night.”

“Of course he did.” Lois rolled her eyes. “Go for it.”

“Thanks Mom!”

“Do you want to drive?”

“It’s not far. I can walk.” With that, Jon headed out.

The closest convenience store was about a fifteen minute walk away, and while it could be trusted for coffee, it never had a large ice cream selection. So, he decided to walk the extra mile, almost literally, to the grocery store instead. It added ten minutes to the walk, but it was a necessary evil.

Normally, this was a really nice walk. Metropolis at night was lit up as bright as Las Vegas. The combination of street lights and neon signs ensured a luminous haze, even if the sky was pitch black above. It was a safe city, especially if you stuck to the main roads, and you were a white-passing, cisgendered male. So Jon never had any problems wandering around alone. As stated previously, the walk to the store was normally really nice.

Until it wasn’t.

More specifically, until the sky decided to randomly open up and rain on you ten minutes in. Jon cursed under his breath. Of course he didn’t wear a hat or bring an umbrella. Why would he? The forecast had said there was only a forty three percent chance of rain tonight. Jon wasn’t a mathematician or anything, but he was pretty sure that meant it was statistically more likely that it shouldn’t rain. Yet, here he is.

He scrunched his shoulder up to his ears, tipping his head down so that his mouth was level with the collar of his shirt. His hands subconsciously became fits around his phone, keys, and money in his pockets. Truthfully, it didn’t bother him until the water droplets started to gather on the lenses of his glasses. At least _he_ was waterproof.

The jury was still out about piña coladas, but Jon was very sure he didn’t like getting caught in the rain.

Jon wasn’t completely drenched when he finally made it to the grocery store, but he was certainly moist. It could be worse. His socks could be wet.

Seeing as he was only here for two things, he decided to forgo the hand basket. First stop, coffee. Even though Jon came to this specific location quite often, he could never remember what was where. He had to look at just about every single sign designating what was in each aisle, actually passing the frozens section in the process, until he found “Coffee / Tea” listed in the same aisle as condiments, which was just weird.

In the past, he would just grab a bag of coffee based on what brands he could remember seeing around the house. But working in a coffee shop has ruined him. Now he like… Cares… Weird. He looked through the different brands on the shelf, immediately skipping right past the McCafé and Dunkin Donuts — maybe he should get donuts while he’s here — and looked over the variety of options around the eight dollar price mark. Geez. Guess that knocks out donuts. A dark roast would probably be a safe bet. It was a favorite. Although, Jon preferred the smell of french roast. That being said, he had no idea what it tasted like. Definitely not blond roast.

Did his mom like hazelnuts? He couldn’t remember. His dad would drink literally anything and never care about the taste, so that didn’t matter at all. Who made caramel apple flavored coffee? Oh wait… That sounds like something the Grind would serve… The overworked barista picked up two different brands of pre-ground robusta beans and studied the illustrations as if somehow they would tell him which one was better.

Hm. This was harder than he thought.

Uh……

Um…..

“Did the coffee beans insult you?”

Jon jolted at the question, dropping one of the sacks of coffee in the process. “Sweet zombie Jesus!” The exclamation most certainly wasn’t planned, but how else are you supposed to react to being startled and dropping everything. He had been completely unaware that anyone was even in the same aisle as him, let alone watching. Jon looked up to see who in heaven’s name had just forced him to cry out the name of our good Lord, Jesus Christ, Amen, expecting to see a concerned employee — oh wait, sorry. _Associate_ — or at least some twenty-eight-year-old man trying his best. Instead, he got an eyeful of what was becoming a far too familiar head of gelled back jet black hair, and a quirked up eyebrow: Damian. Literally how? Seriously. There’s an absurdly large number of people in this city. What kind of horribly planned out plot device did some bored college student in serious need of a new hobby have to be used in order to make sure they were both in the exact same place at the exact same time?

“Are you ok?” Damian’s expression was more confused than concerned. Valid.

“Just spooked me.” Jon leaned down and picked up the dropped items. He straightened up and put the bags of coffee back on the shelf, unable to commit to either just yet. “Funny running into you here.”

“I’ll be honest, I wasn’t so sure it was you when I first saw you.” Damian shifted, and Jon noticed the shopping basket hanging off of his forearm. It was full of various items from a gallon of some juice to what looked like a bottle of high brand men's body wash. “It’s hard to recognize you without that visor.” There was a teasing smirk on Damian’s face as he lifted a hand up to mime tipping the brim of an imaginary hat.

“What gave me away?” Jon watched as Damian stepped over to the opposite side of the aisle, where a large selection of teas lined the wall.

The man looked over different packages, running his fingers over the images on the boxes until he seemed to find either the right company or the right flavor. The older teen picked up a metal canister and studied the contents closely. “Your glasses.”

Jon instinctually adjusted his glasses on his face. His mouth fell open into an “oh” shape, but he couldn’t actually seem to make the sound a reality. Instead, he watched as Damian decided on a rather fancy looking company and placed the tea in his basket. Ah yes. Because staring was such a good thing to do. Speak you damned idiot. “So, uh… Late night shopping?” Nice job, Kent. Really. A true master of conversation skills.

“Just picking up a few things on the way home.”

“You live around here?” Super creepy question, but ok. We’re gonna roll with it. Jon couldn’t pinpoint why exactly he was anxious, but he turned back to the barricade of coffee lining his side of the aisle. He absentmindedly picked up a random bag and immediately frowned as he looked over the label. Either it was too early, or too late, but he was very certain that ‘holiday blend’ was vastly out of season.

“It’s just on the way.”

This is probably where you’re supposed to chuckle, make some stupid joke about in a while crocodile, and move on with your life.

“Did the coffee insult you or something?”

Or maybe not!

“What?” Jon looked puzzled for a second before the question processed fully. “Oh. No.” He put the bag back. “I just can’t figure out what brand to get for my mom.”

“You don’t have some super barista powers to help you with that?” It was hard to tell if that was meant to be a joke or not, but there was a funny little grin on Damian’s face, so it was at least meant to be some kind of humorous.

“Alas, I do not.” Jon shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not a huge coffee person. So I really don’t know what’s good. I just know how to make it.”

Damian made a soft humming and took two steps closer. “What does your mother usually drink?”

“I think dark roast. She’s one of those ‘I like my coffee as black as my soul’ type people.”

“Ah. I’m familiar with the type.” The fellow looked around the wall of coffee, then took a few steps to the side, reaching for a selection on the top shelf and holding it out for Jon. “This is a personal favorite of mine.”

“1850, Black Gold?” Jon read the label out loud. “I’ll trust your judgement.”

“You can thank me with a discount next time you work.”

A lopsided smile cracked across Jon’s features. “Oh I see. This is all about you getting free drinks. And here I thought you were helping me out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Not quite.”

Now came the awkward silence because neither of them had bothered to make sure there was a clear way to continue the conversation.

“Uh…” Time to shoot yourself in the foot because you can’t handle uncomfortable social situations. “What are the chances that you’re heading over to the dessert aisle?”

Olive green eyes widened just by a millimeter, as if somehow the question was so out of left field. Damian then looked down at the contents of his basket, but something on the fellow’s face made it look as though he were running calculations in his head. “I wasn’t planning to, but something sweet sounds really tempting actually.”

Jon tucked his bag of coffee under his arm. “Doesn’t it? I’m such a sucker for ice cream.”

“For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me.” Damian took the lead, stepping first and forcing Jon to jog a few steps so that they could walk side-by-side.

The frozens section was roughly six aisles away, so they had a bit of time to get there. Why walk together in an anxiety-ridden silence when you can horribly embarrass yourself with stupid questions? So, as any socially challenged person would, Jon let his big mouth fall open. “So do always get off of work really late?”

“Not always.” Damian moved his shopping basket from one arm to the other. “I don’t mind late nights though.”

“I guess I get that.” Jon thought about it. “Not like my work is anything like yours, but I usually like closing shifts more than opening.”

“Night owl?” Damian spared Jon a glance as they passed the beverage aisle.

“Not really?” The younger of the two brought his free arm up to scratch the back of his head. “I actually kind of like waking up early, but it’s just a lot of dealing with customers that _aren’t_ morning people. Also the morning rush is so much harder.”

“Makes sense.”

They reached their destination, and of course, ice cream was all the way at the other end. Go figure. Whoever ran this place seriously wanted to make you work for your guilty pleasures by shoving the frozen, sugary goodness into the farthest back corner of the store. Jon began looking through the semi-fogged glass doors to the freezers, scanning over each container to try and figure out what the options were.

“What about you?”

“I’m definitely a night person.” Damian seemed to quickly locate and pick out a pint of that fancy gelato with the screw top. Prick.

“Cool.” As fun as it was to branch out sometimes, Jon quickly found himself standing right back in front of the Ben and Jerry’s. “Ok should I get Truffle Kerfuffle, or Chubby Hubby?”

“Excuse me?” The confusion on Damian’s face was clear as day.

It was odd for Jon to associate with someone who didn’t know every single Ben and Jerry’s flavor from memory. “Vanilla-chocolate swirl with nuts and fudge, or vanilla-peanut butter swirl with fudge and pretzels.”

Damian nodded at the clarification. “The first one sound better.”

“I’m seriously trusting you today.” Jon said, picking out the chosen ice cream from the freezer. Oh man that was cold. “You better not steer me wrong.”

“Consider it payback for me trusting you with my coffee order most mornings.” Damian put his own dessert selection carefully in his basket, moving a few items to the side to make room for the unplanned treat. “Is that all you came for?”

For some reason Jon completely forgot what his mission was the second he was asked. He stared down at the items in his hands. He definitely was only supposed to get those two things… Right? Right…Yeah. No. This was right. “Yeah I’m good to go. You?”

“Yes.”

The two didn’t say much else to each other as they made their way to the cash register, and Jon honestly couldn’t tell if that was more or less uncomfortable. On one hand, it was certainly awkward to stand in line behind someone he personally rang up a minimum of three times a week and not talking to the young man had left a really weird silence between them. On the other hand, if Jon didn’t open his mouth, he couldn’t mess up. This was either a win-win or a lose-lose.

One of those reusable cloth bags materialized itself out of the bottom of Damian’s basket. Apparently it had been folded up and tucked away underneath a box of granola bars. Jon plopped his two items behind the little plastic divider on the conveyor belt, and tried not to judge everything Damian was getting. That’s always so hard isn’t it? You always want to look at the other people at the grocery store and just critic what they’re buying. However, a quick glance over Damian’s proved that this guy definitely lived a much healthier life than Jon did. Seriously folks. It’s 2018. Who’s still out here buying rice cakes?

One interesting thing Jon couldn’t help but notice though; Damian didn’t talk to the cashier. The guy hadn’t been rude of anything. He said ‘hello’ and ‘thank you’, but didn’t engage in any kind of banter. It was the complete opposite of how the made jokes and had over-the-counter conversations with Jon back at the Daily Grind. Huh… What’s that all about?

Jon went up and made sure to greet the cashier, but the lady didn’t seem too responsive to even his most polite smile. Maybe that was it. This just wasn’t one of those chatty cashiers. His total was twelve dollars and ninety-seven cents. Dang. He probably could have gotten a box of donuts too. The teen handed over the folded up twenty dollar bill from his pocket, and took it upon himself to put the ice cream and coffee grinds into a plastic bag. When the cashier handed him his change, he folded up the coins and dollars within the paper receipt and jammed the money into his pocket. He’ll just have to remember it’s there so he can a) give it back to his mother, and b) not accidentally put his shorts in the laundry hamper with money still in the pockets.

“Well,” Jon wrapped the handles of the plastic bag around his left wrist, swinging it slightly as he stepped out of the checkout aisle towards Damian, who seemed to be checking his phone. “It was cool running into you here.”

Said older teen looked up, shutting his phone off and slipping it into his pocket. “Are you not heading to the underground parking lot?”

“Nope.” Jon shook his head. “Taking the old fashion way home.” He pointed down to his feet, the fabric of his sneakers were still wet from the walk here.

“You’re joking, right?” My oh my. Was that concern in Damian’s voice? “It’s a torrential downpour out there.”

Jon shrugged. It wasn’t that he liked walking in the rain, but, well, he’d made his choice. Next time he’ll just have to take his mother up on that offer to use the car. The absolute best case scenario would be suddenly getting a massive raise and/or four thousand dollar tip, and actually be able to buy a car of his own. That seemed less likely though. “I’ll be fine. I’m waterproof.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Damian eyed him up and down, and honestly, it made Jon a little uncomfortable. Then, something unspoken seemed to click in Damian’s head because all of a sudden the nineteen year old stood a little straighter. “I’ll give you a ride.” With that, the older guy pivoted on his toes and started walking towards the elevators.

“I’m sorry?” For some reason, Jon followed after the other without thinking.

“I’ll give you a ride.” Damian repeated.

“That’s a really nice offer, really, but it’s fine.” They stopped in front of the elevators. “I’ll be alright.”

“No way.” Damian pressed the button. “I’m not letting the barista who makes the best lattes at my favorite coffee shop get soaking wet, and risk you not being able to make my drink tomorrow morning.”

What Jon really should have focused on here was unpacking weather or not that was a long-winded way of saying that Jon was Damian’s favorite barista, but instead he decided to pay attention to the latter half of the statement. “How do you know I work tomorrow?”

The elevator arrived, the metal doors sliding open to an automated female voice announcing ‘going down’. Damian stepped into the elevator and turned around the face Jon. An arm went out to what was presumably the button panel, and from the looks of it held down the button to keep the doors open. That, or this was the absolutely slowest up-and-down box in the history of up-and-down boxes. “You always work Tuesday mornings.”

Ah. Ok. That was true.

“So are you coming?” Damian asked again. “Or are you just going to let my thumb cramp up holding this door open?”

“Oh, uh. Yes please.” Jon slowly stepped into the elevator. Once he was inside, Damian moved to press the switch for P2.

It was an awkward two floor ride down. Neither said much. Instead of talking, Jon found himself picking at the cheap plastic of the bag his goodies were in. Hopefully the little bit he just pulled off wouldn’t cause a massive hole to rip through and his ice cream to go tumbling. The coffee? He could live without it. His parents probably couldn’t, but he could just make them really strong, free drinks when they all got the the Planet tomorrow. The ice cream though? _The ice cream though?_ Not to be dramatic, but Jon had purchased this ice cream five minutes ago, and if anything happened to it would break his heart. Top Ten Anime Death number four: Jon’s ice cream.

Other than planning a full funeral for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, Jon’s brain was absolutely wracking trying to think of what kind of car Damian would have. The guy was nineteen. Logically speaking, it was probably something like the family Toyota, or some kind of simple four door. If his clothes were any indication, it was possible that Damian’s family could have been one of those “here’s a new car for your sixteenth birthday”-types. Maybe he drove an Audi or something. Oh my lord if Damian drives a Prius or a minivan Jon would crack up on the spot. Sure, Jon didn’t exactly have the room to judge someone's car, seeing as he himself didn’t have one. That little tidbit wasn’t exactly about to keep him from laughing at Damian if the guy drove a mini-cooper.

While Jon’s mind was wondering, Damian seemed to have pulled out a set of keys and stepped up to a car. The big reveal. Jon looked at the car, expecting to see a Honda with a good sized ding on the back dumper, and instead stopped immediately in his tracks.

Parked in front of him, in all it’s classic car glory, was a 1968 Pontiac Firebird. It was painted a sleek black, matching the cloth of the convertible top. Not a single scratch showed or patch of weathering showed to prove that this car was anything less than brand new, despite Jon knowing this was a fifty year old vehicle he was looking at. It was a thing of beauty, and Damian seemed to be walking towards the door.

“Ok. Ha-ha. Real funny joke there.” Jon shifted where he stood. “Now come on. Which car is yours?”

Damian didn’t give an answer, instead the man inserted a key into the door, unlocking it with ease and opening the door to reveal a red leather interior.

“No way.” Jon’s jaw dropped. “No freaking way. This _can not_ be your car!”

“This isn’t my car.” The older of the two dropped his bag of groceries on the floor of the second row. “Technically, it’s my father’s car. Although, I’m the only one who ever drives it. So I suppose it’s considered mine now.”

Jon dared to step closer, just barely putting his hand on the cloth top. “Damian this is a thing of beauty.”

The appreciation seemed to bring a smile to Damian’s often times stoic face. “You like cars?”

“I love them.” The reply came without hesitation. He traced his hand over the top of the car, down the hood, but kept his touch light, as if he was afraid of leaving a fingerprint.“My grandpa’s really into old cars, and taught me all about them. He has an old 1956 Chevrolet 3100. It’s in nowhere near as good a shape as this though.”

“Very nice still.” Damian nodded at this before stepping into the driver's seat. Jon had to wait for Damina to lean over the center console to the other door in order to unlock it. Once he heard the click, Jon gingerly opened the door. “Hop on in.”

“I can’t believe this.” Just wait until he told his dad about this. Clark was going to be so jealous. Jon very slowly sat down, feeling himself just sink into the scarlet leather of the passenger seat. As carefully as he could, the teen placed his groceries in between his legs on the floor mat. He couldn’t resist the urge to run his hands over the leather. Walking to the store on a rainy day might have just been the best decisions he’s ever made.

“Buckle up.” Damian instructed. He put the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life. It was a simple waist belt, but Jon made sure to fasten his securely. “Where to?”

“Hm? Oh, let me pull it up.” Jon had to, unfortunately, stop admiring the classic convertible for a few minutes to yank his phone out of his pocket. He opened up maps app on his phone, and typed in his address. Could he probably just give verbal directions? Yeah, _probably_. But it was raining pretty hard and he didn’t want to risk missing a turn and looking like an idiot. Once the navigation aid was set up, little blue arrow and all, Jon held it up in his left hand so Damian could see the screen. The older of the two looked at the screen briefly, making note of the first turn, before putting his hand on the gear shift and pulling out of the parking spot.

The radio wasn’t on, which seemed odd, but it was also very uncomfortable to just sit in silence for a whole car ride. So, Jon decided to make simple conversation again. “Is this the original leather?”

“No.” Damian leaned forward to see around the bend of the ramp to exit the garage. “It used to be black, but that made it feel like a funeral procession. So I had it replaced three years ago.”

Jon ran his hand along the leather padding the door. The bright ruby-red was certainly a statement. “Does this baby have a name?”

“Not that I know of.” Lord even the turn signal on this car sounded amazing. The rain was coming down in buckets. It battered against the fabric roof of the old car, making what was likely louder than if there had been a regular metal roof. “You’re not worried about this car being in the rain?” Was he asking a lot of questions? Yes. Too many questions? Possibly.

“Not particularly.” Damian spared a glance at Jon’s phone to check where he was supposed to be going. The drive normally would be only about ten or so minutes, but the combination of traffic lights and the fact that no one in Metropolis seemed to know how to drive the second anything started descending from the sky meant it was going to be quite a bit longer. “I get it serviced regularly. Besides, what’s the point of having a car you don’t drive?”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m guessing I’m looking for an apartment building?” Damian asked as he got into the left lane to turn onto what should be Jon’s street.

“Yeah. It’ll be on the right side of the road.” The younger teen leaned forward and looped his hands back through the handles of his grocery bag.

They waited for the light to turn green for what seemed like forever. The curse of living in the city: traffic lights longer than CVS receipts. Jon [passed the time by watching the windshield wipers go back and forth. He tried not to be annoying by talking all the time, but he was just one of those guys who tried to dispel awkward situations by talking through them. When the light finally turned, Damian pulled the car into the right lane, getting ready for Jon to call for him to stop at any moment.

“Uh, it’ll be the third one building on the second block.” Even though it was probably didn’t make much of a difference, Jon pointed out the front window to where you could just barely catch a glimpse of his apartment building.

There was a firelane in front of the structure, so Damian was able to pull right up front. Jon would only have to be able to sprint across the sidewalk before he’d be safely under the awning and away from the rain.  

“Thanks a bunch for the ride.” Jon slipped his cell phone back into his pants pocket and undid his seat belt buckle. “I would have been very soggy without it.”

“It wasn't a problem.” The older teen put the car into park and flicked on his hazard lights. “I would have felt bad if I made you walk.”

“I hope it wasn't too out of the way?” Maybe? Possibly?

“The complete opposite direction actually.”

Well… There goes that.

“But trust me, I would not have offered if I didn't want to.” A normal person probably would have searched for more meaning to those words, but Jon’s a diagnosable dumb ass sometimes, so he didn't even bother to look at it as more than what it was.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.” Damian nodded.

“I'll throw in an extra pump of caramel in your drink tomorrow.” He was about to exit the car, hand on the door handle and everything, when he paused and just looked out the window. “I don't want to open this door and ruin your leather seats….”

A chuckle escaped from the driver's seat. “My leather seats will be fine. But your ice cream won't be if you keep it out too long.”

For the first time in his entire life, Jon was forced to think over what was more important to him; ice cream, or the interior of a classic car. Truth be told, the deciding factor ended up being that he definitely could not just stay in Damian’s car all night. So instead, he braced himself, and a quickly as he physically could, opened the door, bolted out into the rain, shut the door behind him, and booked it too the entrance of his apartment complex. When he got underneath the awning, Jon stopped and turned around, offering a wave; although it was quite likely unseen through the rain.

It was that exact moment, watching the taillights of a 1968 Pontiac drive away in the rain, that _exact_ moment, when Jon suddenly had a very specific thought. Without skipping a beat Jon’s phone was in his hands. His messenger app opened up immediately to Kathy’s contact, and rapidly typed out his message.

_SOS_

**Kathy**

_???????_

_I THINK THERE MIGHT BE A BOY_

**Kathy**

_!!!!!!!!!!_


	6. Fresh Out

“Three dogs. Everything on ’em.” Jon pulled three crinkled dollar bills, and after a bit of fishing, managed to find twenty five cents in the form of one dime, two quarters, and five pennies. He handed the cash across to the mid-forties man wearing a yellow and red striped apron working the hotdog stand. Less than forty seconds later -- big cities are absurdly fast paced -- three hotdogs loaded with ketchup, mustard, relish, and diced onions here being passed over to him. Some people would put chilli or cheese on their hot dogs. Those people were wrong.

The teen shoved one of the dogs in his mouth as he walked in one bite too few; almost choking on it was well worth the risk. The other two were precariously balanced in the same hand. He adjusted his cap once he had a free hand. Oh yeah. New cap. Standard issue “Daily Grind”, all brown with the café’s name embroidered in a glorious Times New Roman font -- because this isn’t just any coffee shop people; this is a coffee shop in the lobby of a world class newspaper company; pretentious, but not overly pretentious. The caps came in just a few days after the absolute god awful visor and saved Jon from a summer of fashion disaster. Elle Woods wasn’t exactly proud of him yet, but maybe he could get a silver heart necklace and run off to Harvard to chase a boy, and be halfway there.

Jon trotted back to the Planet. He was on an early lunch break. According to his shift lead, labor had gotten high, and since Jon was scheduled to work a double today, he got off his first shift early. No complaints here. So why was he in a rush to get back to the Planet when he still had fifty two minutes left on his break? Simple: free wifi. It was truly the only thing that made the world go round.

The teen went right up to the spinning door, turning to press his back against it in order to pass through. He walked right through the lobby to those super shiney elevators in the back. There were always people filtering in and out, so thankfully there was no need to try to hit the elevator button with the toe of his shoe. He had to juggle the two hot dogs in his hands, mostly to shield them from the potential ketchup stains on their three hundred dollar business suits. Jon shuffled onto the lift, which thankfully only had about a cow herd of people on it. Silver foxes and strong independent women alike started calling out what floor they needed.

…

….

………

What floor was it again?

Either fifteen or sixteen… Fifteen or sixteen… Sixteen or fifteen…..

Fifteen….

Or sixteen….

Screw it.

“Fifteen.” Jon called out, then strategically waited for another person to call out their own number. “Sixteen.” Foolproof.

Jon rocked back and forth on his heels as the elevator dinged to one floor after the next. Thank goodness there was no upbeat, instrumental cover of pop-radio’s four year old summer hit jingling away in the background. Of course, this left Jon wondering if the Planet was too classy for elevator music, if it was just broken today, or if enough under caffeinated journalists had staged a _coup d’état_ in order for that noise to get shut down. _Vive la revolution!_

There were way too many floors in this building, and it seemed like someone on this elevator worked on every single one. They stopped at just about every floor, with at least one person either boarding, or pushing their way off. Eventually the bell chimed as they reached the fifteenth floor. Jon poked his head up above everyone to try and make an educated guess as to if he should get off or not. He was in the process of trying to figure out if that large, framed image of the city skyline on the wall across from the lift was familiar because he’d been on this floor before, or because it was a generic photograph that was plastered on every postcard, tee shirt, and souvenir bottle opener with the wrong name on it, when the door decided to just shut all over again. Rude. Oh well. Floor sixteen it is.

The rising high school senior stepped off the elevator at the next ding. It seemed like he was the only one this time around. He started looking around to figure out if he was in the right place or not -- that fake ficus across the hall _did_ look pretty familiar -- and from there, made a left. Thankfully, he remembered where he was going from there. Just passed the water cooler and the copy machine was a small cubicle that was home to a not so small man; his father.

“Order up!” Jon called as he stepped up to his father’s desk.

The man’s back was facing him, but he quickly spun around in his chair at the sound of his son’s voice. “Hey there Jonno! How you doing champ?”

“Brought you this.” The teen held out one of the hot dogs to his dad. “I'm on break and figured you’d need more for lunch than what you packed for yourself.”

“Thanks buddy. You shouldn't have.” Clark took the food with a smile. “I didn't know you were on break though. I would have taken you out to lunch or something.”

Jon shrugged one shoulder as he moved some papers on his father’s desk over so he could hop up on top of the wooden surface. “I didn't know I was getting a break until ten minutes ago.” He started chomping down on his remaining hot dog. A large glob of sauce smeared over the corners of his mouth. Now being completely honest, had no one been around, Jon is fully ashamed to admit that he would likely have wiped the Condiment King’s attack off with the back of his hand or inside of his shirt collar. Alas, he was wearing a white polo shirt, and ever since the Tide Pod challenge had come around, his mother didn't exactly let him anywhere near the Devil’s fruit detergent to get the stains out. Plus, you know, the whole “gotta look presentable for work” thing. But that was overrated. Getting back on track here, Jon ended up sliding his legs over just enough to pull open the top drawer on his father’s desk. The man always had a stockpile of those free packets of tissues.

“Work’s going good though?” The reporter scarfed down the food he’d been given in a matter of seconds. He reached for the travel mug by his computer to wash down clump of bread stuck in his teeth.

Jon shrugged. “One lady this morning made me redo her drink three times. That sucked. But all-in-all it’s still pretty fun.”

“I do not envy customer service workers.” Clark rubbed his fingers off on a piece of tissue before turning his attention briefly to his desk top so he could save whatever document was open at the time; probably the piece he was working on. “Hey so, your birthday’s coming up.”

“Oh is it? I hadn't noticed.” He’d noticed. There was no one more aware of Jon’s birthday being two days, twelve hours, and thirty two minutes was than the boy himself.

“Careful with that sarcasm, son. Some people might think you're being serious.”

“Yes Sir.”

“Have you thought about what you want to do?” Clark leaned back in his desk chair and stretched his arms out behind him. It pulled at the fabric of his shirt, which had been neatly tucked in, so that it became bunched up along his belt line.

“We don’t have to do anything super special. I know y’all are busy.” Jon offered a smile. It was hard when stuff like this fell into the middle of the week and not on weekends. But his birthday was a Thursday this year, and there was no helping that.

“Jon. You know good and well that your mom and I cleared our schedules so we’ll be out of the office by four o’clock at the latest. So whatever you want to do, just say the word.” That was something Jon would always love about his family; they made time for each other. When he was a little kid, Jon had always hated how some nights his mother wouldn’t come home before he went to bed, or how his dad wouldn’t always be able to pay attention to him because he had to make calls for phone interviews with people in different time zones. But no matter how much work they had, or how big the story was, when something important came up he could always count on them to be around. He knew very well that made him lucky.

“Well, we still haven’t gone to see Incredibles 2.”

“Sounds good to me.” Clark smiled. The man had always been a fan of superhero movies. “Then how about we go out and get dinner too? Make it a night.”

“Sure!” The best part about birthday dinners was the free dessert.

“I’ll let your mother know.” The mid-western man pulled out his cellphone and seemed to type out a text message.

“Is she still out?” The teen looked around the open office, straining his neck as if somehow that would help him catch a glimpse of his mother. It was pretty convenient that both his parents worked on the same floor.

“Yeah, she and Jimmy won’t be back for another hour or so.”

“Oh. Ok.” Jon didn’t know the details, but he knew Lois had to go cover some politician’s event on the other side of the city. Jimmy Olsen, a pretty cool family friend and awesome photographer — seriously, his Insta game was super strong — had tagged along for the sake of taking pictures. They were a known duo, and worked together on just about every story.

“Here,” Jon’s train of thought was cut off by his father reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. The man fingered through his cash, before pulling our four dollars. He held the bills out to his son. “Why don’t you go over to the vending machine in the break room and get a couple snacks. I’ll finish sending this email real quick, then I’m all yours until your break’s over.”

“Sound good to me.” Jon hopped off of his dad’s desk, and happily accepted the cash. “What should I say if someone asks what I’m doing here?”

“Just say you’re Lois Lane’s son.” His father turned back to his computer.

“Not Clark Kent?”

“If they’re smart, they’ll be more afraid of Lois when she wants a bag of chips than me.”

Fair enough. “I’ll get a pack of those cookies she likes. So you can give them to her and stuff.”

“That kind of forward thinking is exactly why you’re her son.”

 

* * *

 

"And she wanted a _what_?” Terra was practically cracking up to the point where she couldn’t tie her apron around her waist. She just let it hang around her neck as she covered her mouth with her hands.

“A shot of brandy.” Jon tried to keep his face straight, but it was too hard to stop the laugh that kept cracking out of his as he continued to tell the story. “She wanted a shot of brandy in her coffee. So I was like ‘sorry ma’am, but this is a café’, she just looks at me and goes ‘oh, what about Kahlua?’ Deadass.”

“Literally why.”

“She either had a bad day, or a really good one.” The boy pulled his cap off of his head momentarily to run a hand through his hair. “But anyhoo. She was baffled.”

“So what did you do?”

“Sold her a regular cup of coffee and pointed her in the direction of a liquor store.” Jon shrugged.

“You did not!” Terra looked at him in disbelief.

“Well what was I supposed to do? Run to the back and grab my flask from my bag?”

“Oh please. We all know you don’t have a flask.” The blond girl scoffed, before finally straightening up and gathering the ties of her apron so she could secure it around her waist. “You should have texted me though and I could have brought mine.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Uh huh. Sure thing. _Next time_ I have an alcoholic customer I’ll keep that in mind.” Customer service was always such a treat.

“Ex-quuuuuze me,” Terra contorted her voice to sound like your stereotypical soccer mom with a thick Metropolis accent — If you’ve never been to Metropolis, it’s reminiscent of a New Yorker who got kicked in the nose by an Irish step dancer — “Can I haaaaave an Irish coffee?”

“Sorry. We’re fresh out.”

An almost evil grin spread across Terra’s face. “Can I haaaaave a non-fat sugar-free extra soy latte with four packets of caffeine free energy booster?”

“Nope.” Jon shook his head way to quickly to be an actual response. “Fresh out.”

“Fresh out?” The Metropolis accent continued. “Fresh out of what?”

“All of it.” It was hard to keep himself from cracking up. “Every single thing. We’re just out.”

Thankfully, Terra seemed to find this whole thing just as absurdly hilarious because her mockery faltered. “Another customer walks in and asks for coffee. ‘Nope. Sorry. We’re fresh out.’ I’m gonna use that now.”

“Can you _imagine_ actually saying that to a customer?” Jon leaned his elbow down on the counter by the cash register. “God I’d love to be able to just say we’re sold out.”

“You see what we really need,” He watched as his coworker checked her phone for the umpteenth time, and just stared at her background image as if it would somehow either tell her today’s news report, or will a text message to appear. “One day a year where we can say whatever we want to customers. Not like, mean things, but truthful things.”

“Like what?”

The girl shrugged. “I just wanna be able to judge people's orders to their face, and refuse anything that’s stupid.”

“Fair enough.” As much as Jon would love to continue this conversation, that annoying little chime on the door went off. Three people walked up to the counter in their perfectly primped blazers and thirty dollar haircuts. “Welcome to the Daily Grind, how can I help you today?”

“One grande double shot caramel macchiato.”

Jon typed the order into the register. “Is that all today?”

The person turned to their buddies. “What do you guys want?”

“Oh, we can order for ourselves.”

“Oh please. I insist.”

“Oh no. We couldn’t”

_Oh please shoot me._

After a back and forth that made Jon want to dunk his head in a freshly brew pot of blond roast, he was finally able to ring up an added tall cold brew, and a decaf café au lait. Honesty, what was the point of a decaf coffee? Why even bother? Alas, Jon was good at his job. Well, maybe not good. But he was a solid mediocre. He wrote the orders on their respective cups, passing the decaf order to Terra so she could prepare the steamed milk, while he poured out the blonde roast and cold brew.

Jon’s second shift continued to be uneventful. Traffic was steady. There hadn’t been any lines, but the lulls never lasted for more than ten or fifteen minutes. It gave them plenty of time to clean up, get some new pops brewing, and find where the flipping frick the box of domed plastic lids went. The problem was, that as the work day ended and more people filtered out of the office building, there was less and less foot traffic. Not as many people got coffee in the afternoons apparently.

When it had gotten particularly boring, Jon and Terra split up chores. She had chosen taking out the trash for herself; while some would assume that was the worst possible job, some could use it as a chance to get a quick eight minute break. No one could _say_ it didn’t take that long to take the trash out, especially if the bags were “heavy”. Jon decided to sweep the floors. He knew his manager was in the back office somewhere, probably taking inventory or putting in orders, otherwise he probably would have just taken a seat and rested his feet for a few minutes.

As previously stated, not many customers came through this time of day, but Jon was finally starting to piece together a few more regulars. There was an intern who always came by to pick up a few coffees for the sixth floor, a meteorologist who really loved mocha frappuccinos, and a pair who were definitely “just friends” that always stopped in after a successful radio broadcast. Of course, out of all his regulars, Jon had a pretty clear favorite.  

A stupid smile spread on Jon’s face when he saw Damian step into the coffee shop. “Afternoon there.” He leaned his elbows on the counter as the young man approached the register. Now look. Maybe not everyone has figured it out yet, and maybe Jon was starting to become a little more biased with every passing second, but Damian was a _fine_ glass of wine. Who gave that boy the right to wear well fitting business suits? Who gave that boy the right to pull off a Prussian blue suit and a peach dress shirt? Heck. Who gave that boy the right to _wear peach_? What brilliant angel in heaven was making this gorgeous piece of man and blessed him with the perfect skin tone to pull off—

“Hello.” Damian approached the counter and completely cut off Jon’s nonsensically train of thought. “Has it been slow today?”

The teen shrugged. “Not really. You caught us on a downswing.” Jon wanted to sweep his eyes over this oh-so-valued customer, but instead grabbed at the brim of his work cap, pulling it down over his eyes to scratch at his forehead. When he pulled it back up it caught his bangs, so he ended up having to take the cap off all together to readjust it. He ended up turning it around to face back, but doing so messed up the position of his glasses, so he had to rebalance the frames.

“Well that’s good.” A slight smile appeared on Damian’s face as the fellow slowly pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

Don’t stare. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. “So uh… What are we feeling today?”

Damian hummed as he looked up at the chalkboard menu posted on the walls, as if he didn’t stop in every single day. “How about a grande caramel iced coffee with soy milk?”

You see folks, if you haven’t figured it out by now, Jon really liked stupid jokes. Purely, utterly, unsalvageable jokes. So when presented the opportunity, how could he possibly refuse? The words bubbled in his chest as a chuckle before they were even able to leave his mouth. “Sorry. We’re fresh out.”

There was a sound of paper cups falling to the floor as Terra started laughing behind him. Good to know someone appreciated him. Of course, Terra was the only person who knew why this was a joke in the first place, but it was still good to have the support. Did Damian understand this little gag? If the absolutely flabbergasted expression on his face was any indication, that would be a “no”.

The older teen’s mouth was slightly a gap, his eyebrows creased so a set of small wrinkles formed between them. “You’re out of coffee?”

What’s more pathetic? Jon’s sense of humor, or the fact that a confused face on an attractive boy made his heart jump? “No. Sorry. Bad joke. We definitely have coffee” His voice came out almost sheepish, and he was hoping Damian didn’t notice the hint of ugly Metropolis accent that came out on the “o” in “sorry”. He quickly wrote the order down on one of the plastic cups. Normally he would have passed it back to Terra, but there were no other customers in line, and well… He _really_ wanted to make this drink. He then rung the order up, obviously “accidentally” forgetting to charge Damian for the shot of caramel. An honest mistake. Clearly. Totally… Don’t judge him.

“I don’t get it, but I’ll take your word that it was funny.” Damian shrugged and he watched Jon take the plastic cup over to the flavored syrups.

“It’s just a customer service thing— er, well… Terra and I think it’s funny at least.” Jon pumped caramel sauce all around the sides of the cup, adding an extra pump to settle at the bottom. “Regular iced coffee, or cold brew?”

“Cold brew would be lovely. French coast please.”

Jon smiled as he went to fill the cup half way, before going to scoop some ice into the cup, then continuing to fill it so there was half an inch left for the soy milk. “You don’t normally get iced drinks. Switching it up today?”

“It’s very hot out.” Damian made his way over to the pick-up counter. The man checked his phone one last time before slipping into his pocket. “I figured something refreshing would be nice.”

Jon finished making the drink. He secured a plastic lid on it, and grabbed a wrapped straw, laying it across the lid, before sliding the beverage across the counter to the older man. “You know, there might be a broken cookie or two in the back. If there is you can have it.”

“Why?” Was that supposed to be why as in ‘why are there broken cookies in the back’ or why as in ‘why are you offering me a broken cookie’? It was hard to tell this guy.

“Well, we can’t sell them if they break.” Try to make this sound casual Kent. Come on. It’s no big deal. “So you know, if you want one I can get one for you.”

Damian looked down at his coffee and laughed — a laugh was good right? Please tell me that was good. If a laugh was a good thing then God was certainly present in this Chili’s tonight. When Damian lifted his head, Jon could see the casual smile that graced his lips. “Let me know if there’s a sugar cookie back there.”

“Sure thing! I’ll just be a sec.” Was the smile on Jon face absurdly large? Yes. Was getting excited about fetching a guy a cookie a little much? Yep. Definitely. Was he going to let that stop his little gay heart? Nope. Never.

Jon backed up passed the open door to the storage area. There were a lot of different boxes on the metal shelves. It took a bit of scanning, but he was soon able to find the one filled with individually wrapped cookies. Chocolate chip, chocolate chip, chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, chocolate chip, ginger snap, and — oh look! — chocolate chip. Eventually Jon was able to find a sugar cookie, but it was still completely intact…. Well…. Only God can judge. He bent the cookie so that it broke in two places. Mama didn’t raise no fool; if it was broken perfectly in half then it would have been suspicious. But this looked like a solid, natural break. Jon grabbed a handful of other cookies, just to restock the front while he was at it, then headed hack to the front.

“You’re in luck.” He smiled at he handed the cookie over to Damian.”I didn’t realize the apparent discrimination in our cookie order.”

Damian mouthed a thank you as he accepted the sweet snack. “I didn’t realize cookie orders could be discriminatory.”

“Well apparently sugar cookies are very poorly represented.” Jon walked over to the big glass semi-dome thing that displayed all the baked goods and sandwiches, and laid out the new stack of cookies, before making his way back over to the drinks counter. He was a tidbit surprised that Damian was still standing around, rather than finding some table to perch at with six laptops, thirty manila folders, and a 1997 palm-pilot. “No work today?”

“Not this time.” Damian took a sip from his drink with one hand, and lifted the other to glance at the watch on his wrist. “I completed my assignment a day early, so I get to relax for once.”

“Ooooh. Nice.” Jon leaned his elbows down on the counter, closing some of the distance so it wasn’t so awkward to continue the conversation. “What do you plan to do with this freedom?”

“Well, I was thinking about robbing a bank, over throwing the mafia, and committing a few murders here and there.” The only man shrugged. An absolutely stunning, playful smirk showed the sarcasm he was intending more than the inflections in his voice did. No. His voice stayed deep, and soft, and— oh no get yourself back together Kent — Maybe Damian just wasn’t that expressive, or maybe little quips like this just didn’t come naturally? “After that, I’ll have to see what time it is. But if it’s not too late then maybe I can work a jewelry heist in.” No. That kind of humor was definitely au naturale.

“Well that sounds like a pretty normal Wednesday evening.” It was hard to stop the chuckle that came with the response.

“What about you? Do you have any plans for tonight?”

The questions, while probably very innocent, made all of the oxygen in Jon’s lungs vacate his body. That had to be a casual question right? It was definitely just a casual question. There couldn’t possibly be more meaning behind it. Sure, Damian’s got a nice smile, gelled his hair back, wore expensive looking peach dress shirts, and drove a _really_ nice car, but that doesn’t mean anything. Every trait could indicate a totally straight expatriate. But there’s the external paradox of what we’re seeing.

_“What are we seeing?” - Elle Woods, Legally Blonde The Musical (2007)_

Is he Gay or European?

…. or…. Middle Eastern?

Ok. Ok Jon. Jonno. Jonathan. Jonothanial. Boy potentially flirting. Sirens going off. Insert foghorn cover of the Attack on Titan theme song here. Breathe. From words in head. Bring words to mouth. Open mouth. Make sound.

“Well as uncool as this is about to make me sound, I’m getting a ride home with my Dad, figuring something out for dinner, then probably continuing our Marvel Movie Marathon.” Way to make yourself sound completely and utterly boring. Couldn’t squeeze anything in there about sports, or something? Couldn’t have picked _literally_ anything to watch other than superhero movies? Come on. Save this somehow. “If I can, I’m gonna try sneak a peek at the articles my parents are working on.” He ended that sentence with a wink, and Jon had never felt more proud of his own basic motor functions.

Something in all of that apparently peaked Damian’s interest. The only man tilted his head slightly. “Are these for upcoming papers?”

“Yeah!” A moronically large smile was on Jon’s face. He could talk about the news! He knew all about the news. “Dad’s gonna have an article in tomorrow’s paper, and Mom’s working on some big story again. I don’t know the details about hers, but I might be able to get a few snippets out of her tonight.”

“What section of the paper?”

“I think politics.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it then.” Damian took another long, drawn out sip from his drink. It wasn’t until the slight slurping sound towards the end that Job realized the guy had finished his drink.

“Want something else?” He asked, nodding his head towards the cup in Damian’s hand.

The older male seemed to think about it for a moment. “I think I’ll wait until I’m definitely going to be heading out.”

“Sure thing.” Jon moved off his elbows so his palms were on the wood counter. He leaned back until his arms were straight. He could feel the pull in the back of his shoulders as he let out a deep breath. There was a solid attempt to make the action look natural, and not like a silenced squeal of a preteen girl about to go to a One Direction concert.

Jon really wanted to say more. He really, _really_ did. If it was up to him, this conversation would never end. Alas, the universe hates him more than anyone else. Right before he was able to speak again, the door that led into the lobby of the Daily Planet swung open, sounding off that oh so familiar chime. Truly a hate crime. Rather than a casual customer though, who could possibly step into this semi-blessed semi-cursed café, then Jon’s _flipping flapping flopping father._

Speak of the god-damned Devil.

Yep. Y’all got that right. As Jon is standing here attempting to do some about of flirting — it’s probably not being reciprocated, but a little closeted gay heart can dream — Clark effing Kent decided to stroll on in.

Locate self district button. Press and hold.

“Hey Jonno!” Ok. Of all the nicknames his father could have gone with, that was certainly one of the safest options.

You got this buddy. Act natural. Act straight. “Sup Dad?” He pushed off of the pick-up counter, reaching up for his cap and pulling it back around to face the front. “Did’ja finish work?”

“Wrapped things up with the editor, saw your mother — good call on the cookies by the way — and last thing to do is have you take a cup of coffee to her once you get off work.” The reporter pulled his glasses off, whipping the lenses with his tie, before sliding them back on his face. He adjusted his suit jacket briefly, making sure it was still properly buttoned despite him being off the clock.

“Late night for her tonight?”

“You betcha.”

Jon winced. “Yeah I’ll bring her a big one.” It was then that Jon remembered a certain very cute nineteen year old that was still standing in his café. Damian seemed to be looking at Clark expectedly. There was an interesting glimmer in his eyes that Jon hadn’t seen before. Apparently Damian noticed Jon looking at him again, even though the moment was extremely brief, because the slightly older individual looked back at him. Oh. Damian loves the news. “Uh, Dad. This is Damian.” Jon gestured to his closeted crush. “He’s a regular here.”

Clark turned to face the young man, his country-boy smile on his face. He politely offered his hand for the nineteen year old to shake. “Clark Kent.”

Damian nodded, adjusting himself so he stood tall and square before taking Clark’s hand in his own. “Damian Wayne.”

_Erch skerch_

_Record scratch_

_What was that?_

“I’ve followed your work in the Planet for years. I don’t believe we’ve ever met before.” The nineteen year old seemed like the peak of composure, and for some reason Clark wasn’t reacting to this _at all_.

“Pretty sure I’m the one who should be apologizing there.” Clark retracted his arm, pressing both hands into his pockets. “How’s your father? I haven’t seen him since the charity function last April.”

“He’s well. There will be another event over the Fourth of July weekend. Perhaps I can get him to extend an invitation to you?”

Apparently that was a very good offer, because Clark was beaming. “I’ll make sure my calendar is clear.”

Alright _what in God’s name was happening here?_

Wayne?

_Wayne?_

_W A Y N E ?_

Well, that sure as hell explained the car.

“What brings you to Metropolis?” Clark was clearly still in reporter mode, and Jon was apparently the only person in this situation having a problem processing this.

“Work.” Damian shifted. One hand came up to fidget with the clasp of his watch — ‘Wayne’ also explained the Rolex — he glanced back over to Jon once more. “I’m working at the Wayne Technologies branch here for the summer. It’s mostly busy work, but it’s practical experience.”

“You enjoying yourself?”

“I would say so.” At that, Damian actually bothered to check the time on his watch. He nodded, then turned back to Jon, who was still standing, completely dumbfounded behind the counter. “Could I get something to go?”

“Huh? Oh. Sure.” Jon shook his head to try and get his bearings back together. “Same thing as before?”

“Please.” Damian smiled at him.

“Coming right up. Let me just check you ou— er… ring you up down here.” Jon paced back to the register. He tried to keep his head in work mode, but that was a little bit difficult right now. He punched in the order, once again not charging for the caramel; it’s the little things.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Jon turned on his heels as quickly as he could to start getting the drink together. He needed to look away and make sure his face wasn’t read. He wanted to slam his forehead into a wall or something. Unfortunately, the drink took mere seconds to prepare. Jon took a deep breath, grounded himself, and turned back to the pick-up counter — his dad and his crush both standing here was just too much. What did he do to deserve this? — He plopped the drink down, and passed it across the surface. “Alright. There you go.”

Damian stepped in close to the counter, a grin on his face. He winked as he picked up the up. “Thanks Jon.”

With that, Damian turned to leave the café.

“H-ave a nice day!” His voice cracked. His voice _fucking_ cracked. Could someone please just come and shoot him in the face?

“Good family.” Clark burst through that morbid train of thought with a casual remark. “I’d never actually spoken to Damian before. You’re mother’s done interviews with him. From what I heard, he used to be an odd kid.”

Jon didn’t say anything. He simply picked up a wet rag, and started whipping the counter by the flavored syrups. Somewhere along the way, Terra had disappeared to the break room; she’d likely return soon. The teenaged boy took a deep breath.

A Wayne.

 

_Shit._


	7. Gay Panic

“Wayne!” Jon screamed into his cellphone as he paced back and forth in his room. “Can you  _ fucking  _ believe it?”

_ “I can honestly say I did not see that one coming.” _ Kathy was on the other end, and bless her, listening to Jon’s internal breakdown rapidly becoming external.  The second he had gotten off of work, Jon had immediately spammed his best friend’s inbox with as many “Gay panic” memes as he could possibly find, followed by all caps incoherent keyboard smashing.

Unfortunately, he had to convince his father he wasn’t completely freaking the fudge out. All throughout dinner that night, Jon kept his hand locked around his phone under the table, trying to explain his massive discovery to Kathy between bites of take out Thai food and simple conversation. It wasn’t until Clark had left the apartment to go pick Lois up from work that Jon finally got to slam the call button. He’d barricaded himself in his room, just in case his parents got home earlier than expected. 

He had a system. Never lock the door, because that’s suspicious. Instead, leave a pile of dirty laundry on the floor right behind the door so it’s difficult to open. This allows for optimal time to change the subject if your on the phone, or close a few tabs on your laptop. Next comes the sound: Find yourself a nice little bluetooth speaker for cheap, and position it right next to the door too. Make sure to angle the speaker so all sound would be played away from the room.  _ Voila!  _ You now have a non-suspicious defense for a very closeted teen.

Now where were we? Oh right: Gay panic.

“Wayne, Kathy!” Jon screamed again. “How can he be a Wayne?”

_ “Well, it’s definitely statistically unlikely. But someone’s gotta be one.” _

“Yeah, but why does it have to be  _ him _ ?” Jon threw himself onto his bed face first. He reached over for his phone charger, and plugged the cable into his phone while he talked. “How the hell am I supposed to get with a Wayne?”

_ “Hold on.”  _ There was the sound of clacking on the other end, likely typing.

Jon did not hold on. “He’s probably totally hetero. I thought he dressed well because he was queer. Turns out nope! He’s just  _ richer than rich _ .”

_ “I said hold on, hoe.”  _ Kathy was definitely laughing at his pain.  _ “Don’t start digging a ditch just yet. Imma google this guy.” _

“No!” The teenaged boy bolted up to a seated position. “Don’t google him. That’s so weird.”

_ “Boy, I gotta know what this child looks like.”  _ As fair of a reason as that was, for some reason the thought of searching up Damian just felt like an invasion of privacy. That being said… well… If the guy was a Wayne, then he was probably used to that?  _ “Oh…” _

Oh no. “What? What’s that mean? Kathy what do you mean ‘oh’?”

_ “Yeah ok.” _

“Kathy!” Jon clutched his phone to his ear. “What the garbage do you mean?”

_ “Jon his boy is hot-to-trot.”  _ Kathy had found pictures of him. Part of Jon wanted to ask if she was sure they were pictures of Damian, but he highly doubted there were all that many ‘Damian Wayne’s in the world. Even if there were, there was probably only one of significance.  _ “I can totally see why you’ve fallen for this boy.” _

“Well?” Jon was starting to rock back and forth, getting uneasy. He pulled his phone away just long enough to take a look at the time. Guesstimating? He probably had fifteen minutes before his parents came home. “You’ve got a better gaydar than me.”

_ “Doesn’t work too well with pictures though.”  _ The girl on the other end hummed, probably trying to figure out the same mystery Jon was.  _ “I could totally see him being some kind of queer, but I can’t say for sure.” _

“Ok. That’s better than nothing.”

_ “Hold up I’m gonna see if there are any articles about it.”  _ There was the sound of typing once more.  _ “Does Damian Wayne is gay?” _

“Oh my god I need you to serious here.” Dammit. She hit his with a solid meme reference in his time of crisis? How dare. “Be a good ally and tell me he’s gay.”

_ “Lol ok bae.”  _ He could just feel the eyeroll.  _ “Alright so, apparently no one fuckin knows.”  _

“What?”

_ “Well, he’s never had a single public relationship. Nothing. No scandals. No rumors.” _

“Useless.” Jon scooted back on his bed so he could lean against the wall. “Have a crush on a low-key celebrity and you can’t even dig up rainbow colored dirt on him?”

_ “Well,”  _ From the sound of it, Kathy was continuing to click through links or images.  _ “There are a bunch of paparazzi pics of him with both girls and guys. Thing is, I don’t know who any of them are.” _

“I don’t know jack about the Wayne family, but isn’t it like, big?” Even though the family name was pretty big, it was just like how Bill Gates or Steve Jobs were big. Everyone knew the name. Everyone knew what their companies did. No one really knew much about the private lives of anyone unless they for some reason cared. In the past, Jon had never cared. Now? Well… Now Jon cared quite a bit.

_ “Yeah. Lot of kids.”  _ Kathy sighed.  _ “I don’t know. I can’t tell if any of them are siblings, or reporters, or other rich people. If you want I can keep digging?” _

“Nah. That feels weird. Thanks though.” Normally, Jon would have dug through every inch of the internet to try and figure out if this boy was a GayTM. But it felt weird this time. He actually knew Damian. Maybe not well, but once you have someone’s coffee order memorized, how much is there left to learn? 

_ “So are you gonna ask him out?” _

“Hold the damned horse there cow girl.” What the hell Kathy? Why would you do that to him? Why would you suddenly give Jon more reasons to panic? “I’m so far deep in Narnia, even Aslan would be impressed. I’m not exactly in any position to pine after the son of a billionaire.”

_ “Ok. So just come out.” _

“Ah yes. Why didn’t I think of that?” He laid the sarcasm on thick, making sure that even through the phone, Kathy would be able to catch it.

_ “Imma need you to take that sass, and put it in your pocket.” _

“One does not simply come out, Kathy.”

_ “I know that.”  _ The girl sighed. Both teens knew in their heart of hearts that Kathy was only trying to help. Out of all the people in Jon’s life, the firey little blonde was definitely the most supportive person he’d ever met. She might not understand the sexuality struggle, but she knew that Jon wanted to do things in his own time, when he was ready.  _ “You’ve been saying that you want to for a while now though. Maybe this is a sign that it’s time?” _

The sound that left Jon’s mouth was something crossed between a gargle and a pterodactyl. It had literally no meaning other than to convey his current frustrations. “I’ll think about it.”

_ “Jonathan.” _

“Katherine?”

_ “Ha!”  _ The laugh was obnoxious and loud through the speaker of Jon’s phone. There wasn’t much of a joke there other than the fact that literally no one ever called her by her full name.  _ “Just think about it, kay? If you need me to drive up to get you, or to hang out, and be your support or something, I’m there.” _

“You da best.” Jon let himself fall back onto his side. He moved his pillows over and kicked at his blankets until they were lined up like log. The teen put his phone on top of the plush mess, dropping his head on it so he could continue the conversation hands free, and wrapped his arms and legs around the bedding. “I’ll figure something out.”

_ “I know you will.” _

“A fucking Wayne.”

_ “You sure know how to pick’em.” _

“You know my mother’s interviewed him before?”

_ “Perfect. So tell her you gay, then ask her all about him.” _

Jon was about to open his mouth to keep the conversation when he heard the door to his apartment shut, followed by the very distinct clatter of shoes coming off, a purse being dropped, and some conversation being had. “I gotta run, Kath. Talk later?” 

_ “Defs. We’ll chat tomorrow.” _

“Bye bae. Love ya.”

_ “Love ya too.” _

Jon had to push himself up off the bed to hang up the phone. He unplugged it from the charger and slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t bother messing with how his blankets and pillows were arranged, it would save him the trouble of messing with them tonight, but made sure to shut off the little bluetooth speaker before he left his room. For some reason his heart was absolutely pounding in his chest. It was as if just talking about telling his parents about his well-kept, glittery secret we sending his body into cardiac arrest.

“Hi Honey.” His mother was laid out on the couch in the living room, clearly exhausted from a long day. 

“Hey Mom.”

Yeah. No. Coming out could wait.


	8. Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

 “It’s hideous.” The snicker may have been unintentional, nonetheless, it cracked over the features of Damian’s face.

“Wow. Thanks for the confidence boost.” Jon tried to keep a flat face, but it was a difficult task when the guy he had a nearly overwhelming crush on was in front of him, trying to suppress a smile; an unfairly cute smile at that.

It was clear from Damian’s expression that the fellow was beyond amused by the situation. The corners of his eyes were turned up, tiny little laugh lines appearing alongside them, his fingers lightly hovering over his lips to hide that charming smile. The sight was absolutely delightful, and as much as Jon wished he could relish in knowing this alluring man was laughing because of something he had done, Jon wasn’t exactly fond of the cause.

He wished he could say he’d cracked a solid joke, made a perfect pun, or pulled off an impeccable impression of a Saturday Night Live skit he watched on YouTube recently. Nope. None of those good things. No, the oh-so unfortunate cause of Damian’s amusement was the tinsel-rimmed party hat situated on top of Jon’s head. The fifty-cent construction paper cone was decorated with printed on cartoonish confetti that spanned the entirety of the neon color wheel. Gold and silver metallic stars matched the plastic fringe that pressed into Jon’s black hair, and polka dotted all around the sorry excuse for a hat. This absolute monstrosity was secured to the teen’s head by a few bobby pins, after the crappy elastic band it came with had snapped.

It was disgusting.

An absolute atrocity.

Someone was _going_ to be murdered for this.

Why was this piece of garbage attached to Jon’s head like a parasite? Well, apparently his manager had known that today was his birthday -- woo hoo -- and had decided to do something festive to celebrate the occasion. But for some ungodly reason, her definition of “festive” was forcing a _teenage boy_ to stand around wearing the most repulsive cone of camp shame she could possibly find.

This had to be a hate crime.

Sure, she didn’t know he was gay. But there had to be some basis of discrimination here. It was truly homophobic.

“Look,” Jon frowned from behind his register, still rather unhappy with the sheer amount of pleasure Damian seemed to be getting from this. “Are you gonna order something, or just stand there, hold up my line, and mock me?”

The man across the counter turned to look around the café. It was roughly nine forty five, if the clock was right, which it never was; just at the end of the morning rush. There were about four people in line total, and the second register was up and running, so drinks were still moving quickly despite Damian taking the time to titter away at Jon’s expense. When Damian did turn back, the man just shrugged. “I’ll have the same thing I normally do.”

“Sure thing.” Jon started punching the vanilla latte with caramel into the register. He picked up a paper cup from the stack between him and the other register. Where the hell did his marker go? He just had-- Oh… In his pocket… Right…

“So I’m guessing there’s an occasion for this… _that_.” Damian couldn’t take his eyes off of the offending party hat even as he pulled his wallet out of his pocket.

“It’s my birthday actually.” Jon made sure the card reader was ready for Damian to use before scribbling the details of the order onto the cup. As always, he marked down an extra few pumps of caramelle. As much as he wished he could, he wouldn’t be able to make Damian’s drink, but he wanted to make sure that whoever did knew to give him a few extra pumps of caramel sauce.

“Really?” The laughter in Damian’s eyes settled into a blend curiosity and -- dare he say it -- affection. Of course, there was a one million percent chance Jon was just imagining the fondness, and the older guy just had gas or something, but let his little heart dream. It’s his birthday after all. “So you chose to wear that horrible thing?”

“Just for that, I’m spelling your name wrong.” Petty. Set. Go. Jon quickly crossed out the name he had already written in favor of “correcting” it just above. D-A-M-I- _E_ -N. Ha. Take that hot guy.”

“I suppose I deserve that.” The fellow seemed to accept this as he watched the cup get passed back to the two baristas in who were hustling to make drink after drink. “Congratulations. How old are you now?”

“Seventeen.” The receipt for the order printed automatically. While Jon knew his crush never wanted a paper copy of his receipt, it bought him just a few more seconds to talk to the man. “So I’m now officially a korean boy-band, a great song from a pretty quality musical, and quality movie starring Zac Efron and Matthew Perry.”

“I’m just going to pretend I understand the references.” Damian accepted the receipt when it was passed to him. He very slowly folded it between his fingers and few times, taking care to make sure the corners lined up and everything. The piece of paper was ultimately tucked into his wallet. “I wish I had known. I would have brought a present.”

“You were just gonna bring me a birthday gift on my birthday to my birthday party on my birthday with a birthday gift?”

“Excuse me?”

Damn. That was such a good meme too. “It’s nothing. Stupid internet joke.” Jon waved it off.

“Ah. Ok.” The moment was forcefully extended for just a little bit longer as Damian pulled a few dollars out to slide into the tip jar. Mr. Damian Wayne never left cash tips. Mr. Damian Wayne _always_ included his tip on his card. Weird. “Well then. Happy Birthday, Jon.”

Is there anything better than a really attractive rich boy wishing you a happy birthday? Jon would personally argue no; no there is not. A massive smile spread on his face. He probably looked like a complete dork, working in a café, wearing a stupid party hat, and grinning like a complete fool. But that was just a risk he was willing to take. “Thanks! See you tomorrow?”

“Quite likely.” The older man nodded at this. “I’ll stop making your other customers wait.” With that, Damian waved, then stepped out of the line to wait for this latte to be finished.

Jon was able to catch one more wave from Damian, and of course waved back, as the man was leaving the Daily Grind all together.

 

* * *

 

To tee or not to tee, that is the question. Jon stood in his room, looking between the three tee shirts he’d pulled out and hung over the lip of his dresser drawer, and the button downs hanging in his closet. A simple tee screamed casual, it was relaxed, just like a night out to the movies with your folks should be. But what was a birthday without dressing up for the occasion just a little?

The teen stepped back over to his closet and flipped through his options once more. It was the middle of the summer, so one of his short sleeved ones would be best, but that left him with only four options, all of which were heavily patterned, leaning on the side of flamboyant. Jon really liked loud patterns and colors, and thankfully they were pretty in fashion right now. He never got weird looks for wearing them. He ran his fingers over the fabric of one of his personal favorites; a light pink cotton blend with little sail boats scattered across it. He didn’t wear it often, especially not with his parents but maybe tonight…

There were two little vibrations coming from his phone, which was tucked into the elastic band of his boxers. Jon pulled it out to see the newest text message.

 

**Kathy**

_So you doing it tonight?_

 

Jon groaned. He did _not_ want to think about the you-know-what right now.

_“I don’t know. I’m gonna see how the night goes.”_

The birthday boy pushed the pink shirt back into his closet, instead pulling out a baby blue button down that was decorated in large toucan birds -- not quite as queer but still fun -- it would go well with his black skinny jeans. He was in the process of deciding how many of the top buttons he should leave undone when he felt his phone buzz again.

 

**Kathy**

_Good luck Bae. If u cant do it dont sweat it._

 

It brought a smile to Jon’s face just as quickly as it made a sigh leave his lungs. He typed out a quick “thanks” before tracking down his jeans in his laundry bin; because as everyone knows, pants are never really dirty. Once they were pulled on, securing with a belt, there then became the decision of if he should tuck it in or not. If Tan France was here, there would at least be one vote for a french tuck, but this was a casual night out. A birthday, but still casual, and still being spent with his parents.

“Jon! You almost ready in there?” He could recognize his mother’s voice calling through his bedroom door.

“Just a minute!” He ran a quick comb through his hair, pulling out some of the knots, but not enough to style it. His hair was starting to get longer lately, but it wasn’t manageable yet. At this length, it had that fun floppy look to it that he always prefered.

“Hurry up! We’ve got a surprise for you!”

Huh. Maybe they were going to give him his present now?

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The teen grabbed a clean pair of socks from his dresser drawer, and shoved his phone into his pockets. With one last pat down on his person, he okayed his look and stepped out of his room. “What’s going on?”

He’d expected to see two people in the living room; his parents. One parent, two parent, and then he’d stop, there are only two. Instead, there was third person there, a young guy, standing with both bands shoved in the pockets of his blue jeans. The man pulled his hands out of his pockets, and pulled to adjust his red flannel shirt, unbuttoned completely to show a plain black shirt underneath. When he and Jon made eye contact, both boys grinned. “Well here there squirt.”

“Kon!” Jon ran at the guy, flinging his arms around him in a hug. Arms much bigger than his own, settled on top of Jon’s shoulders, squeezing him once before pulling off. The arms turned into hands ruffling at his hair. “Awe geez! What the heck dude!” Jon quickly pushed away, immediately running his fingers through his own hair to try and fix the damage.

Kon, short for Conner, was Jon’s older brother by roughly eight years. Despite the age difference, they had always been extremely close. Unfortunately, the didn’t see each other often. Kon had run off to California for college, and never moved back. They still saw each other on major holidays, but the absolute last thing Jon expected was for his big brother to come back for his birthday.

“What the heck are you doing here?” Jon asked, giving a quick, playful punch to Kon’s shoulder.

“I managed to get the time off.” The man leaned back, sitting on the arm of the couch. “I didn’t know for sure if I’d make it East or not, so Dad helped me keep it a surprise.”

“It’s good to see ya.” This was great. Jon hadn’t seen his brother since Easter in Kansas.

“You boys just about ready to go?” Lois smiled at the men around her, and it became very clear that Clark was included in “boys”.

“Let me just get my keys.” Clark smiled at his wife, then went over to the kitchen in the little apartment and looked around the counter. “Hey Lois! Where did I put my keys?”

 

* * *

 

“Middle row’s still open! Go! Go! Go!” Conner pushed at Jon’s shoulders, sending his little brother forward towards the theater seats.

“On it!” Jon launched forward, pushing past the seven year olds carrying popcorn buckets bigger than themselves. He climbed over the backs of two rows of chairs to get to the four empty seats closest to the center of the movie theater. He turned around and flashed a thumbs up to his brother. He quickly picked the best of the seats for himself -- birthday boy perks -- kicking his feet up onto the back of the armrest of the chair in front of him.

“Nice going little bro.” Kon eventually made it over to the seats, promptly taking the seat next to Jon, leaving the two empty seats for Clark and Lois to sit together for the film.

The parental units were out at the concessions stand, grabbing snacks and drinks. It was an absolute blessing that Conner was there with him because they were able to split the whole gang up. The ‘kids’ swipe up some seats, while the rents grabbed snacks. If Jon knew his parents, and he did, Clark was going to get three large popcorns, each covered in extra butter, maybe a thing of cheesy nachos cause it was Jon’s birthday, while Lois was going to force bottled water on each of them to be “healthy”.

“Ok, Dad’s going to try to get you a slushy, but Lois is gonna shoot him down.” Conner kicked his feet up, pushing his boots against the back of a chair. “So they’re going to compromise, and Dad’s gonna get you a box of Gobstoppers.”

“A slushy is too ambitious.” The younger of the two thought the situation over in his head. “And it’s defs gonna be Twizzlers.”

“Nope. They only have Red Vines here. Lois knows you hate those.”

“Junior Mints then.”

The conversation settled into what normally would have been a comfortable silence. Conner had his phone out, flipping through his Twitter account. Jon on the other hand tried to lay it cool, like he was people watching, when instead he had his eyes trained on the entrance to the theater, watching out for his parents.

“I think I’m gonna tell them.” Jon interrupted, keeping his eyes down on his hands.

Silence was always welcome in the theater, but right now it was just… uncomfortable. Jon wanted to know what his brother was thinking, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at him right now.

“You’re going to tell them?” There was a hint of confusion in Kon’s voice before letting out a slight “oh”, realization coming to him. “Ok, um…”

Jon was prepared for the worst.

Out of everyone in his family, Conner was the only one who _knew_ . There wasn’t any kind of justification for it. Kon was his older brother. They told each other everything. Back when Jon was trying to figure himself he’d be able to talk to Conner, knowing there was no way anyone else in the family would hear about it. That, and he’d completely forgotten his brother followed him on Twitter, and Conner had seen a _lot_ of thirst tweets about Chris Hemsworth. A lot of apologies were made.

A hand clamped down on Jon’s shoulder. “Good for you big guy. Do you know when you’re going to do it.”

“Sometime tonight…”

“Well then,” Conner leaned into his little brother a bit more. “Thank god I was able to come back for this then. If you need anything, I’m here for you.”

Jon wanted to say more, to continue this little brotherly heart-to-heart, but he both of his parents come in. He stood up in his seat, a harmless smile on his face, and waved until his dad saw him. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

 

* * *

 

**Kathy**

_Good luck_

 

**Kathy**

_If anything bad happens, u can just run away and come stay with me._

 

**Kathy**

_Shit that was stupid to say. Nothing bad will happen_

 

**Kathy**

_Promise_

 

**Kathy**

_Ur parents r great_

 

**Kathy**

_They love u_

 

**Kathy**

_U know that_

 

**Kathy**

_ <3 <3 <3 _

 

* * *

 

Jon looked down at the messaged on his phone with a worried smile.

_Ok. I’m going to do it. Wish me luck._

The response came back almost instantly.

 

**Kathy**

_You can do this. ILY <3 _

 

Jon took in a shaky breath, but for some reason it didn’t come out. Instead, it settled high in his chest and felt a one hundred pound weight. He took one more looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He could only stay in here so long before it became suspicious. He could do this. He could do this. He _can_ do this.

“I can’t do this.” Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. No. No. Shake that negativity. This is ok. This is good. “You can do this Kent. You’ve got this. You want this. You need this. Come on buddy.” The teen smacked his cheeks a few times and smiled at himself in the mirror. “I’ve got this.”

He flushed the toilet for good measure and rinsed his hands in the sink to make him going to bathroom believable. For some reason his footsteps felt like lead, and he just hoped he had some amount of color to his face. When he got back to the living room, he saw his parent’s both on the couch. Kon was seated on a stool he’d pulled from the kitchen, facing the hallway. The brother’s made eye contact, and Jon immediately picked up on how his bro’s eyes widened, then a nice, reassuring smile showed up on his face. That was really comforting.

Jon sat himself down on the arm chair, the only free seat including the couch. He really didn’t want to sit next to them while he did this. “Hey um…” His voice felt so small. Jon looked up and noticed that his small little outburst didn’t get his parent’s attention. He took a deep breath. “Hey Mom, Dad…”

That seemed to work. The conversation his parents were having was apparently put on hold, in favor of the two of them turning to look over at their youngest son. They both seemed relaxed and happy. Oh no. He was going to ruin it. He was going to mess the whole night up. What was the thinking? This was so dumb, it had been such a nice night. What was wrong with him?

“Um, I just… I… Uh…” Jon tried to breath, but it felt like his throat was closing up. He could see white spots building up in his vision. Suddenly, his phone buzzed again. The vibration pulled him out of what would have likely been a panic attack if he’d let himself get worked up anymore. He turned his phone over in his hands, looking down at it to see a new message.

 

**The Bro**

_You can do this buddy. I’m here if you need anything._

 

All the air in Jon’s lungs left out at the same time. He looked up and smiled at Kon. Yeah. He had the best brother. Jon looked back towards his parents. His mother had that concerned-parent look on her face, the one where she was prepared to hear her kid say anything from ‘sometimes I do drugs’ to ‘I killed another man and need help hiding the body’. Clark? He had a similar expression, but confusion was more dominant.

“Um. So. I have something I… I have something I want to tell you, and uh…” Jon looked back down at the message from his brother. “I don’t know if you already know or not, but I--”

It was so weird. He’d practiced this conversation so many times in his head. He’d written, erased, and rewritten speech after speech to prepare for this exact moment. But now that he was here? Now that he had the attention of his parents, and the intention to say those words, it was impossible to string his thoughts together.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, and I didn’t-- well I still don’t know how you’re going to react. But I just-- I just needed too-- I wanted to tell you--”

It wasn’t too late. He could still back out. He could tell him about the C he got in algebra last year. He could tell them about how he sometimes brings them decaf coffee at work. He could lie through his teeth and say that he wanted to run away with Conner to San Francisco so he could fulfil his lifelong dream of joining a mime troupe.

“I’m--” Jon clutched his phone until his knuckles were white. He felt his body shiver in a cold sweat. “I--” He looked back up at his parents. His throat was closing up. God, it felt like there was a jagged rock in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but all that did was make it feel like sand was scraping up the inside of his esophagus. His mouth was completely stuffed with cotton balls until he felt like he was either going to throw up or choke to death.

This was such a bad idea. This could only go horribly. Flashes of his parents screaming, calling him horrid, and telling him he was an abomination filled his eyes. They were going to hate him. Everything they promise they had made him about how they would always love him no matter what was thrown to the wind. He’d be homeless. Kon had a place but he didn’t make a whole lot of money, and there’s no way he could support Jon for long. There were a few youth homeless shelters in Metropolis. No. His parents were too high profile in this city. He could move to Gotham. Bus tickets were pretty cheap, and there were always ways to make money in that city.

Oh my god. He was going to do this.

He took a deep breath.

“I’m gay.”

Silence.

Was silence good, or bad? It had to be bad. It had to be bad. It had to be--

A hand covered over Jon’s, the contact pulling the panicking teen out of his own head. He opened his eyes, which he hadn’t actually realized had been screwed shut, to see his dad’s hand evolping his own. Jon followed the hand up, looking up to see… To see a smile.

“Jon,” Clark’s proud, southern comfort smile was bright as always. “Thank you for telling us this.”

“Oh honey.” Lois got up from her seat on the couch and circled through the livingroom to stand behind Jon. She wrapped her arms around him, and squeezed him tight. It wasn’t until that moment that Jon felt every pent up emotion in him break down. Suddenly he was just sobbing. “I’m so sorry it was so hard for you to tell us about this.”

“Hey. Hey Jonno.” Clark made sure that his teenage son was looking at this before he spoke. “You know we love you. You being gay will never change that.”

“Did you really think we wouldn’t love you anymore?” That motherly concern in Lois’ voice came out so clearly.

Jon shook his head, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“Hey.” Clark pulled his son’s attention again. “I’m really proud of you, son. Happy Birthday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy National Coming Out Day! No matter who you are, you are valid, and you are loved.


	9. Bros will be Bros

Jon banged on the bathroom door with both hands. “Kon, hurry the fuck up!”

“I’m taking a dump!” His brother’s voice was muffled through the door, but even still Jon was able to tell that there was no way Conner was taking him seriously.

“Kon, I need to get ready for work. You’ve been in there for ten damned minutes. Get out or I’m busting the fucking door down!” The teen continued to knock against the door so that there was a constant drum roll. Eventually he hear the sound of the toilet flushing. Apparently though, his brother decided to take his sweet time washing his hands in the sink. “Oh my god Conner hurry up.”

The door finally swung open, but that apparently didn’t mean that Kon was ready to leave to bathroom. The man stood in the doorway, leaning against it with one arm raised and propped up against the wooden frame. It was a lazy stance, with his free hand hanging in the pocket of his pajama pants. “Why can’t you just use Mom and Dad’s bathroom?”

“Cause all my stuff is in this one.” Jon ducked under his brother’s arm, shoving a bit at the older guy’s side so he could wedge his way into the lavatory. He went up to the vanity, grabbing for his toothbrush and toothpaste so he could brush his teeth.

“How much do you really need to get ready to work in a coffee shop?” Kon asked, turning around so he could continue the conversation.

“Iiif oo ust noe,” Jon spoke out while scrubbing at his molars. He kept his eyes on his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror as he stuck his tongue out and vigorously brushed it. Once he was done, he spit out the suds into the sink basin. He turned the fousset of to rinse off his toothbrush, then cupped his hands underneath to filled them with water. The teen slurped it up, swishing it around his mouth, then once again spitting. “A lot.”

Conner rolled his eyes. Jon was already fully dressed in the same black jeans he’d been wearing for about a week now -- don’t you dare judge him -- and a crisp white polo shirt. A nice leather belt held the teen’s pants up, even though they were arguably too tight around his hips to even think about slipping. Jon was messing his his hair in the mirror, combing it to get rid of his bed head.

“Ain’t ya trying a bit hard there buddy?” Conner watched with a raised eyebrow as Jon washed his face with a wet cloth, then reach for a canister of Lush ‘Cosmetic Lad’ facial moisturizer. Jon dabbed some of the cream against his cheek bones and along his jaw, putting a small striped along the curve of his nose.

“I do this every morning.” Jon rubbed the moisturizer in. While he did, he looked over his reflection, making a mental note of blackheads and potential future zits. There was a gathering of small bumps around his chin that quickly became concerning. “Damn. I’m going to have to do a face mask tonight…”

“Ok, what gives? I have _never_ seen you care about your face this much before.”

“Um, McScuse me. You don’t get skin this good without putting a little effort into it.” The younger Kent flashed a grin to his brother as he put his products away. He grabbed for his deodorant, going through the collar of his shirt to apply it. “But blame Kath. She got me hooked on this self care stuff.”

“Damn. You really _are_ gay.”

A highly attractive snort left Jon. “Yeah no shit Sherlock.” He glanced over himself one more time in the mirror. Teeth: brushed. Face: Clean and clear. Maybe he’s born with it? Maybe it’s Maybelline. Jon messed with his shirt, smoothing out the fabric over his torso and pinching at the fold of his collar.

“You look good.”

“I _feel_ good.” Jon smiled at his reflection then turned to his brother, holding up his hands and firing off finger guns at him. It was the day after he’d come out to his parents, and honestly, he still couldn’t believe he did it. He still felt energized. If an alien invasion came to Earth right now with plans to destroy the whole planet -- because that’s what aliens do obviously -- he felt like he could punch through battleships; like he could leap tall buildings in leaps and bounds. If he needed to, he could fly around the world in the opposite direction and make time go backwards -- but he never would because then he’d have to come out all over again and as well as that went last night, nope the nope right out of that nope.  

Jon glanced back at his reflection one more time -- you know, just in case -- then exited the bathroom to go to the kitchen. He’d already eaten breakfast the morning, but he wanted to grab his leftovers from dinner last night and pack them up to eat during his break.

“Any particular reason you’re looking so good?” Conner had followed him to the kitchen. The older man was changing his pants mid-walk. What a talent. Truly amazing. So proud to have him as a member of this family.

“Work’s got a strict dress code.” He shrugged as he transferred beef lo mein and a decent heap of rice out of the original paper containers, and into a plastic tupperware. Thinking about it now, planning to eat chinese food with a white shirt on was probably a very dangerous game. But now he’s committed.

“Alright, that explains the shirt.” Kon leaned against the back of the couch, facing the kitchen area. “What it doesn’t explain is the drawer full of product, the hair styling, and the scented lotion I saw you put in your bag as you were getting ready.

Play it cool, play it cool. You’re totally not stunting at your barista job to try and catch the eye of a billionaire’s son. That’s totally not what’s happening. “I like to look nice.”

“You’re wearing the belt you only wear when Ma and Pa make us go to church.”

Alright. Leaving the room now.

“Oh darn. I forgot my watch.” Jon quickly started pacing back to his room.

“You don’t own a watch.”

“You haven’t seen me in four months. I could have gotten a watch.”

“This from the guy who once said ‘I’d rather cut off my own hand than strap a mini clock I can’t even read to my wrist’.” Conner followed after his little brother.

“I got a pocket watch.” Well, now that he was in his room, Jon might as well grab a pair of socks. Now he could go classic black, or the fun loving slices of bacon pattern? He quickly ditched both for the pineapple print.

“Bullshit.”

Jon sat on the edge of his bed, unfolding the socks and shoving his feet into them. He tried to ignore how his brother had come into his room, and was now sitting on his bed, reaching for his phone and-- oh no.

“Who is he?”

_Oh no._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Wow the elastic on his socks sure was interesting.

“Uh huh. Sure.” Conner unlocked the cellphone easily -- Jon _really_ needs to change his passcode. 1-2-3-4 was really not stopping anyone -- The first thing Kon started doing was open up social media apps. He clicked on the search tab, scrolling through the names of recent people and pages Jon has looked at. “Ok, so it’s not someone your Facebook friends with.”

“Give me my phone back.” Jon reached over to try and grab the device back, but Conner pushed a hand against his face, shoving the teenager a full arms length away.

“No I have to go through Instagram still.” Conner held the phone away, opposite from where Jon’s arms absently flailed around to try and get his device back. After a bit more perusing, a frown showed up on Conner’s face. “Jon who the fuck is this guy.”

“He’s nobody.” The younger Kent was starting to give up, slumping against his brother’s shoulder.

“Ah! So there is a he!”

“Konnnnnnnn.” Was he above whining? No. Not really.

“You say he’s nobody… Which means he’s _obviously_ somebody.” An imaginary, cartoonish light bulb flicked on above Conner’s head. The damned fool closed out of the social media apps on Jon’s phone, and instead pressing open the Safari app.

Oh no. Jon’s face immediately paled. “Kon I’m serious. Give me my phone.”

“Not until I get to the bottom of this.” He flicked through the many open tabs in the window, clicking on the little icon to bring up Jon’s internet search history.

_Please don’t be porn. Please don’t be porn. Please if there is a God don’t be porn._

Fortunately, Kon was hip enough with the cool kids to completely ignore an article titled ‘Big Dick Energy; Do You Have It?’.  _Unfortunately_ , the guy seemed to find exactly what he was looking for. “Fourty three google image searches for Damian Wayne?”

Fudgenuggets.

Jon lunged for his phone one last time, successfully grabbing it now that his brother had achieved his goal. The teen groaned. This was about to absolutely suck. Can Kon go back to California yet? Seriously. Can he just leave?

“Why the hell do you got a thing for that guy of all people?”

Now, there were two possible plans of action here: A) deny everything and pretend the only reason to be looking up Damian was because he was thinking about styling his hair like that, or B) fess up to everything because Kon was a cold, cruel person who was bound to force it out of Jon one way or another. Brothers sucked. No one should have them. Jon rubbed his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. This was a headache. “I know him…” When he looked up, Jon just saw a look of confusion of Conner’s face, which honestly was understandable. There’s really no foreseeable reason for why a seventeen year old kid with a sunburned neck would know a second generation celebrity. Jon let out a sigh, pushing himself off of the bed and straightening out his shirt again. “He’s a regular at the Grind. We chat sometimes.”

“He’s a regular?” Kon questioned. “As in, he comes in regularly?” Jon nodded. “And you have a crush on him?”

As embarrassing as it was, Jon nodded again. Rather than getting another question from his brother, Jon watched as Conner too stood up off the bed and left the room all together. “Where are you going?”

“To get Lois’s keys.” There was a rustling as the older guy looked around the livingroom for their mother’s set of keys. The parental unit had just taken one car today. “Imma drive you to work.”

“I know that was the original plan, but now I’m skeptical.” Jon grabbed his wallet any backpack anyways. If they were going to head out, it needed to be soon.

“Maybe I’ll hang out. See if I can see this guy.” Kon joked as he shoved his feet into a pair of converse.

“Don’t you dare.”

“Nah. I think I’m gonna do it.”

“ _Conner Elliott Kent, don’t you dare!_ ”

 

* * *

 

“Is that him?”

“No.”

“What about him?”

“Kon I need to go to work.”

“Ok, but what about him?”

“Kon. You are an embarrassment to society.” The two boys sat in the front seat of their mother’s car, double parked just across the stree from the Daily Planet. They were definitely sitting in a firelane, Kon keeping the hazard lights flashing so no patrolling cops could come at their throats. Still, they were getting a few funny looks from moving traffic and pedestrians on the sidewalk. Jon was hunched over in the passenger seat.

“No I want to try and see this guy.” Conner’s arms were folded over the steering wheel, leaning over the dash so he could stare out the windshield. His eyes were trained on the separate entrance to the Daily Grind.

“Kon, I’d love to sit here and stalk a rich kid with you,” Jon gathered up his things in his arms. “But I actually have to clock in on time, you know?”

“Fine.” The older male pushed himself back into the seat, moving an arm to hand out of the window. “You should send me a Snap of him when he comes in.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“After all I’ve done for you?” The tone in Kon’s voice mimicked offence, but they both knew he was just joking.

“I think California is starting to rub off on you. You’re so dramatic now.”

That earned a glower. If there’s one thing Conner hated, it was being called dramatic. Sure, he never truly left his punk rock phase behind him, and he still wore that one silver hoop earring from when he pierced himself with a safety pin at sixteen, but he was oh so totally drama free. Obviously. He was totally and completely chill. Ever since moving to the West Coast, half of what Conner talked about was just complaining left and right about how theatrical and animated everyone there seemed to be. Absolutely not hypocritical at all.

Seeing as he was getting no real response from his sibling, Jon just started getting out of the car. “Whelp, it was great hangin with you, but I’m gonna… Hit the old dusty trail…”

“Ugh. Fine.” Kon slumped in his seat, but seemed to relent as he watched his little brother get out of the car. “Want me to pick you up later tonight?”

“Oh, yeah sure. I’ll text ya.” With a quick wave, Jon closed the car door and made his way over to the crosswalk like the good, law abiding citizen he is. He waited patiently for the walk sign to blink on, still looking both ways before crossing the street. He kept his backpack slung on one shoulder so that he could undo the top zipper and reach in to grab his work cap as he pushed through the door into the café.

He was a little surprised to see Jaime behind the counter. That guy almost never worked day shifts. Jon had recently discovered it was because he was taking summer classes at Metropolis City University, and night shifts just fit best with his schedule. Maybe he just didn’t have a class today.

“Sup dude?” Jon slid passed the counter.

“ _Dios mio, mi amigo_.” There was a near dead look in Jaime’s eyes. “I feel like I haven’t slept in days.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t going to say anything…” Jon looked over his buddy, easily noting the dark circles under his eyes. “You look like garbage.”

“Wow. Thanks.” The older male grimaced. “Midterms suck.”

“Oof.” Jon quickly ducked into the back room to store his bag as well as grab one of the aprons. Once he was ready to go, he went back up front and clocked in on one of the registers. “Don’t die on me.”

“Couldn’t even if I wanted to _ese_ .” Jaime made himself a quick shot of espresso. He didn’t even blink as he shot it back. “Organic chemistry _es una perra_.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Jon offered an apologetic smile as he tied the apron on. He’d managed to pick one out that didn’t look too stained. Thank God. He did _not_ want to mess up his otherwise borderline-attractive look with a crusted on caramel syrup and questionable whipped cream smudges. He went over to the register and punched in his employee ID number to clock in. “Who else is in today?”

“Ennis was here, but he went home early.” Jaime yawned. The man grabbed a bag of decaf coffee grinds and a filter so he could brew a new pot. “The boss lady is in the back doing inventory. Think she’s looking over applications too.”

“Applications?” The teen noticed the door swing open as a new customer come in. “Welcome to the Daily Grind!” He called out. The person came up to the register and rapid fired their order. After he run it up, Jon passed the cup for the order back to Jaime.

The other had started making the drink already. He poured out whole milk and took it over to the steamer. “I think she wants a few more people on staff. I don’t mind the extra hands, but I am gonna miss the hours.”

Jon hummed to himself. It sure would be nice to not be the ‘new guy’ anymore. He still got all the crummy grunt work, but having seniority over even one person would mean less counter cleaning and bathroom mopping, and he _certainly_ wasn’t about to complain about never having to scrub a toilet ever again.

Speaking of cleaning....

“Have you swept yet?”

The older male shook his head, leaning against the counter. “We did table tops after the morning rush, but haven’t gotten around to anything else yet.”

“Yeet. Ok.” Jon looked around for the broom and dustpan -- Seriously folks? Why do we keep moving this? Just leave it in one place it’s not that hard -- and circled around the counter to the store front. “I’ll come back if there’s a line.”

With that, the teen started sweeping along the weird not-quite-laminate-not-quite-cement floor. It was one of those #trendy design choices that was probably supposed to give off some semblance of an industrial vibe -- because dank memes, steel beams, and coffee beans obviously go hand-in-hand -- but truthfully it just made it impossible to tell how much dirt was actually on the ground. Maybe that was the plan. That was the whole point; not to look cool, but to look clean.

He swept along the center of the store, going through the line brushing over any and all spots that most likely came into contact with dirty boots and stilettos.; basically just anywhere customers often times walked. There was a lot of people sitting around the café today, which meant sweeping under the tables was unfortunately off the menu this time around. As much as he would just adore prodding the feet of a bunch of grumpy adults with a broom, he had a feeling that would only lead to a handful of two-star Yelp reviews.  

Jon was sweeping by the front door, the one that lead out to the sidewalk, trying to pull the muck and dust off of the welcome mat, when he noticed a figure standing on the other side of the glass. A smile spread onto his face immediately.

Damian was staring at him through the window, his hands very clearly full will a plastic milk crate, piled high with binders and folders. The guy kicked at the door with the toe of his shoe, gesturing his head towards the handle.

There was no hesitation before Jon stopped sweeping, and moved to hold the door open for his crush. “Well howdy stranger.”

“Thanks.” The man shuffled inside the coffee shop, a grateful smile on his lips. He turned the corner quickly to put the crate down on the little bar counter that lined the front window. Once it was down, he rubbed at the imprints the plastic had left on his hands.

Jon looked over the contents of the box and let out a long whistle. “Is there a war coming that I don’t know about?”

“Not quite.” The fellow chuckled. He strained his shoulders, pulling down on one with his hand as he cracked his neck. “Thanks for getting the door.”

“Oh please.” The teen rested his hands on the top of the broom handle, leaning forward to press it square into the center of his chest. “What was I supposed to do? Let you open it with your foot?”

“I could have managed it.” Damian looked back at the box of folder. “Probably.”

Jon let himself check out the other male. Truly. What was the point of being out now if he couldn’t let himself look at a cute boy? The guy looked impeccable as always. He had to stop himself before a casual once-over turned into intrusive staring, so he pulled his glasses off, moving the broom so it was balanced in the crook of his elbow, and wiped the lenses against the fabric of his apron. “Same as usual today? I can go get your drink started.”

“Make it a double shot.”

“Oof. On it.”

He stuck around for a few seconds -- ok maybe that’s awkward but what was the social protocol here? -- before finally just nodding and tipping the rim of his hat like some fedora wearing, M’lady saying, My Little Pony watching weirdo. He went back to the counter, rounding it to find Jaime taking another shot of espresso.

“Child….” Jon looked at him, pity written all over his face. “I’m worried.”

The college student looked at him with a flat expression. His eyes were blank and dull, like he was staring into the void. “If I drink more espresso I’ll be less depresso.”

“Oh dear.” Note to self: work hard so Jaime doesn’t have to. “Why don’t you just stay there, and I’ll take care of the next few drinks?” The younger barista grabbed a cup for Damian’s drink, not even bothering to mark it before starting make the same latte as always. He could see Damian stepping up to the pick-up counter from the corner of his eye.

The man had an elbow propped up on the table top — very uncharacteristic of him… huh… is something going on there? — casually flipping through his phone. “So how was your birthday?”

“What?” Jon blinked down at the steamed milk in the pitcher before him as the question processed. Oh. Right. He _had_ told Damian about that, hadn’t he? “It was really great actually.” He

“Good to hear it.”

Jon poured the milk into the paper cup, stirring in the espresso and flavored syrups before pushing the cap on. He brought it over to Damian, sliding it across to the older teen. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks.” The male reached for one of the cardboard sleeves on the counter and fit it over the cup himself. “Any highlights?”

_Any highlights you ask?_ Jon couldn’t help but smile, that same nervous excitement he’d felt the night before started selling up in his chest. Of course, they probably weren't _quite_ close enough for Jon to mention his coming out to the guy, but he was still just so proud of himself for doing it. “My older brother surprised me. I didn’t know he was coming.”

“Oh? That’s exciting.” They made eye contact, and it wasn’t until their Jon had been able to catch the exact shade of hunter green in Damian’s eyes.

[Gayness Intensifies]

“Yeah.” Thank the Lord up in heaven that his voice didn’t crack. Were they just going to be chatting now? Were they just going to ignore the large crate filled with paperwork? Was that what was happening right now? Cause if so….

God bless.

“We went and saw a movie, got dinner. You know, normal stuff.” Jon pulled his cap off of his head, placing it down to the side. He ran a hand through his hair. Make it look casual buddy. Make it look casual.

“That sounds fun.” The smile that graced Damian’s face was truly lock screen material. “Was that the extent of the celebration, or is there a soirée being planned further down the road?”

“A soirée?” The teen snickered. “Dude, I turned seventeen, not seventy.” Later down the road Jon would likely smack himself in the face for calling such a cute boy “dude”.

“Well excuse me for being an old man then.” Damian’s tone of voice stayed playful. “What do youths such as yourself do then?”

“Ah yes, the youths.” He scratched at the tip of his nose, immediately wondering if it was normal for your face to feel so hot when you spoke with someone. “You know us, with our discotheques and their silly bands.”

“I’m sorry, you’re what?”

“Our discotheques.” Jon repeated.

“No. No the other thing.”

“Silly bands?” The look of complete confusion on Damian’s face was so evident that the poor child had no idea what Jon was talking about. “Seriously? You missed silly bands?” Jon watched in something synonymous to awe as the man across from him shook his head. “Rubber bands shaped like animals, and cars, and stuff? Lined the arms of every child from the years 2008 to 2010? Kids would trade them under the bleachers in gym?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” That adorable look of confusion was starting to morph into a scowl.

Oh no. Was he teasing to much? Maybe he was being rude. Alright Kent. Reel that sass back a bit, and try to not upset the cute, rich boy. “It was some dumb thing that happened when I was a kid. It really isn’t that big of a deal.”

Damian just nodded, taking a quick sip of his drink. A sigh left his lips afterwards. “Unfortunately, I can’t keep learning the ins and out of this… culturally significant craze.”

“Work?” Jon picked at the edge of a stack of dome lids.

“So much to do, so little time.”

“Good luck.” The seventeen year old offered a smiled, glancing over Damian’s shoulder at the unfortunate stack of folders and binders still piled up on the window bar.

“Thanks.” Damian flexed his shoulders in an attempt to stretch them out.

“No, um…” Jon bit at his lower lip. “Like… I don’t know… Ignore me.”

The other male furrowed his eyebrows, clearly confused. “No. Tell me.”

“Just…” He scratched at the back of his neck, looking just about everywhere but at the boy across from him; the windows, the trash cans in the corner, the wad of coffee soaked paper towels someone left on a table. Anywhere and everywhere until he was eventually able meet Damian’s gaze again. “Good luck.”

There was a slight raise in Damian’s brows, his eyes widening by mere millimeters. His mouth opened, only to close again, as if he needed to completely rethink whatever it was he had wanted to say. After tapping the sides of his coffee cup two or three times, he finally managed to get words out. “Thank you.”


	10. Pay Day

“Jon. Sit up.” Clark sighed, looking in the rear view mirror once more to see his youngest son sprawled out across the back seat.

“But you said I could sleep.” The teenager’s voice came out in a whine.

“We’re getting to the highway soon. You need to sit up and put your seatbelt on.”

“Yeah, come on Jon.” Conner twisted in the shotgun seat. “We’ve been in the car twenty minutes, and you haven’t slept at all.”

“Well maybe if  _ somebody _ didn’t insist on blasting Nickelback at  _ five in the morning _ , I would have.” Jon rolled over onto his side, awkwardly pulling his legs up on the car’s leather seats, half curling them under him so he could actually fit on the bench. Without any warning, an arm came back and started whacking the tired teen in the side. Jon screamed, immediately pushing the arm away. He had to shove himself up so he was sitting up, bracing himself on his arms as he kicked a leg out to retaliate against his older brother. “What the hell, Kon?” 

“Dad, Jon’s being a butt.” Kon teased, his forearm held up to keep the younger man's foot sticking him in the face.

“You literally just hit me!” 

“ _ Boys. _ ” Clark’s voice was stern, and exhausted. “Conner, stop attacking your brother. Jonathan, put on your seatbelt.”

“Ugh. Fine.” The seventeen year old slid into the seat behind the driver’s, reaching over his shoulder to grab his seat belt. “Can we at least change the station?

“Yes we can.” 

“What?” Kon looked at his father with betrayal on his face. “Shotgun always gets to choose the music.”

“I’m too old for this.” Clark reached for the dial on the car’s radio, turning it to a new station. Classic rock was soon swapped out for the only country station that reached Metropolis. It was probably the only genre of music the Kent boys could all agree on.

The three of them were currently piled in Clark’s car on the way to the airport. Conner’s flight back to California was at o’dark-thirty in the morning, and rather than making the guy take a cab, Clark had just woken up early to drive his eldest son. If traffic worked in his favor, he would still be able to get to the Daily Planet in time for work, but he’d notified his boss be might be an hour late this morning just in case. 

Why was Jon tagging along for this little misadventure? Well, completely ignoring the fact that he actually did get along with his brother, and wanted to see him off, the teenager was working the opening shift this morning. His mother was apparently going straight out to some interview rather than going to his office, so he’d been left with two options; force himself to get up before the sun rose so he could hitch a ride with his dad, or take the bus. It was an easy choice to make. 

It was approximately a forty five minute drive to Metropolis International from home, and it sure did feel like it. Jon kept yawning in the back seat, zoning out and staring at the cars passing in the other direction all the way up until they pulled into the hourly lot at the airport. Jon was the first out of the car, stretching his arms and legs out. His father’s car wasn’t the smallest thing in the world, and Jon sure as hell wasn’t the tallest person, but that still didn’t mean there was a whole lot of legroom in the back seat. 

“Yo bro,” Kon had gotten out as well, stepping around to the trunk. He held out his backpack towards the teenager. “Mind holding this for a bit?”

“Sure.” Jon grabbed the strap and slung it over his shoulder. He watched as Kon popped the trunk open and pulled his black, cloth duffle bag out. The luggage had a long leather shoulder strap, with duct tape wrapped around the center of it to either act as a shoulder pad, or a makeshift repair; maybe both. Conner pulled the strap over his torso to rest on the opposite shoulder, then reached a hand back out to his younger brother to take his backpack back.

“I’ve got it.” Jon slid his arm through the second strap to secure the sack on his shoulders. 

“You sure you have everything?” Clack stepped around the car to join his boys, car keys in hand.

“Yup.” Kon slammed the trunk shut so his father could lock the vehicle. 

The three all walked towards the third terminal, side-stepping around everyone who kept stopping abruptly and dropping their suitcase handles -- No sir, that  _ clearly _ isn’t going to fit as a carry-on -- as they walked up towards the large TV monitors listing off which planes were at what gates. 

“Yo Dad. Why don’t you do get a cup of coffee, while we check out the flight information? Kon suggested as he scrolled through his email application on his phone for the confirmation details of his flight.

“Oh no. It’s pretty crowded. I’ll stay with you boys.” Clark chucked. The man held his glasses between his forefinger and thumb as he squinted up at the screens. It wasn’t even three seconds later that he let out one of those loud Dad Yawns that sounds half like a screaming banshee, half like a dying cow, with just the slightest pinch of mid-life-crisis. The mid-western man looked around their immediate area, easily being able to see over the heads of the majority of the crowd with little problem. He looked down his watch, then back at the boys. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about you two find the flight information while I go get a cup of coffee?”

“Kaaay.” The response was simultaneous. Both Kent kids watched as their dad moved through the sea of people way too politely for a six foot three chunk of a man. 

Conner rolled his eyes, finally finding the PDF for his electronic boarding pass in his email. He took a screenshot of the gate number and barcode. “He’s hopeless.”

“Oh come off it. He’s trying his best.” Jon nudged his older brother in the ribs with a chuckle. “Hey, um… I never really thanked you for showing up.”

“You kidding? I wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world, kiddo.” The older man draped an arm around his brother’s shoulder, pulling the kid by his neck into a side hug. “Besides, Dad and Lois helped me out with the ticket.”

“They did?” The teen peaked up at Conner with one eye, his hands moved to shove the arm around his neck away, though there was no actual pressure or intent in the action.

“Yep.” Kon looked down at his phone, then back up at the TV monitors to make sure nothing had changed about his flight. 

**7:30AM Metropolis ➝ Los Angeles GATE D26**

“Why do you like LA so much?” The question wasn’t exactly prompted by anything. It just slipped out without much thought, but Jon stuck with it.

“I don’t.” Conner shrugged. He kept an arm slung over Jon’s shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a cool place. But I’m kinda just staying cause that’s where all my friends are.” 

“You mean that’s where your girrrlllfrieeend is.” 

“Oh, what’s that? You want  _ another _ punch in the gut?” A grin pulled at Kon’s lips, and he shook another fist dramatically in the air, swinging fast, only to lightly nudge it just barely against the center of his little brother’s abdomen. “You know damned well it’s not like that.”

“Hey, you tease me about mine, Imma tease you about yours.” Jon finally pushed out from under the other’s arm and started pulling his clothes straight again. He adjusted the collar of his white polo shirt, pinching over the fold to make sure it didn’t go flat. 

“Speaking of--”

“Nope.”

“Wha--?” Kon looked at his younger brother to see that hard glare that was way too similar to Lois Lane’s. Good to know dirty looks could be inherited. “Respect your damn elders.”

The glower quickly turned into an unamused stare. “Bro, you’re literally twenty four.”

“Legally maybe. But I’m a solid ninety seven at heart.” He dropped his duffle bag on the ground and kicked it towards Jon. “Now pick that up whippersnapper.”

The younger of the two just crossed his arms over his chest, and kicked the bag back, definitely putting a little more uh…  _ love _ into it. “You’re such a little shit.”

Conner looked up, above Jon’s head, and a grin grew on his face. Oh no. Oh no that wasn’t good. Why was he smiling? What did he have planned? “Dad! Jon’s using dirty words again!”

Jon whipped himself around, completely bracing himself for the wrath of a six foot three midwestern man, as the usual “don’t you dare use those words, Young Man” talk that came with it. Instead, he found himself looking straight into the soulless eyes of a family on a travel advertisement billboard.

_ Delaware: Endless Discoveries _

Uh huh. Sure thing buddy. If by “endless” you mean “we have fourteen historical landmarks” and by “discoveries” you mean “our beaches are only ok”, then sure. The discoveries were totally endless.

The teen turned back to his brother to see that dumb smirk, showing just how proud the guy was that he had successfully fooled the teen. Jon huffed his cheeks out, crossing his arms across his chest to give Conner the cold shoulder. “You’re an ass.”

“But you love me anyways.”

“Debatable.”

Kon let out a laugh. It was deep and slow, very similar to Clark’s. “Come on. Let me give you some decent brotherly advice before I take off.”

“Do you have to?” Jon grumbled, but despite the attitude he laid on thick in his voice, he relaxed his stance. Sure, he might  _ act _ like he wanted to shove Kon down an escalator sometime, but at the end of the day, he went to his brother for just about everything. They both knew no matter what, Jon would always take what Conner said to heart.

“Yes. Yes I do.” The older of the Kent boys leaned down to pick up his duffle again, slinging the luggage over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve got all sorts of things on your mind, but you’re young, and you’re allowed to have fun and be stupid.”

Jon eyed his sibling, one eyebrow raised and mouth twisted to the side. “Where are you going with this?”

“Just…” He paused. It could have been for dramatic effect, or just a casual hesitation because he hadn’t actually thought over the exact words he wanted to use. Neither would have been a surprise. “Don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. The worst you can get is a “no”. It’s better an “oops” than a “what if”.”

* * *

Jon jolted when another paper cup was slammed down at his station. He groaned, reaching a hand over to turn the vessel and read the side. Great. Another  _ pissing  _ macchiato. He groaned, finishing up what felt like the fiftieth latte he’d made today, barely remember to top it off with cocoa powder before slamming the lid on it and leaving it at the pick-up counter. His growing to-do list of drink orders was now four drinks long. If the horrendously long line at the register meant anything, that number was a lot more likely to increase that the barista would like. 

He grabbed the next drink in the sequence, silently judging orders request for two thirds caffeinated, one third decaf — just why — but complying. He filled it up, leaving enough room for cream.

A quick glance at his colleagues proved that he wasn’t the only one worse for the ware. Terra was banging out frappuccinos like it was the end of the world. If the dead tired look was any indication, it just might be.

Morning rushes were always murder, but Friday mornings in particular were the absolute worst of the worse. Just take that end-of-the-week dread, add a dash of self loathing, a pinch of dead end job, and give it a bit of an “at least it’s payday” kick start, and it felt like everyone in a five block radius was stopping in just begging for coffee. Unfortunately, Jon had to supply it. 

He started up on the next latte, his eyes drooping shut for the minute and a half it took for the whole milk to steam. Did ninety seconds count as a nap? Fuck he was tired. He should have just taken the bus. Why did he have to be such a good younger brother? This had to be his punishment for being a good person.

Yet another cup somehow found it’s way over to his station, and Jon was ready to grab it and chuck it back to whence it came. Instead, he said just about the only word that could possibly fit his current situation: “Yeet.”

“Wanna swap?” Terra looked over at him from the cold drinks station. She held out a canister of whipped cream to him. 

“Tag team it.” Jon nodded. He crossed the space behind the counter, giving the blonde a high five, taking the dispenser from her and looking down at the drink it was meant for. In his head, he did a really sick move, reminiscent of a cowboy twirling his pistol in his hand. In reality, the doofus teenager just tossed the canister from his left to his right hand. Disclaimer: No whipped cream was hurt in the making of this fanfiction. 

The drink was easy to finish off, and the next one was even easier. Since it was the start of July, and Metropolis was known for being your good All-American city, the Daily Grind had released a seasonal drink that was basically just a glorified pink lemonade. The rouge-punch color came from the combination of fresh squeezed lemon juice blended together with raspberry concentrate. Normally that would be enough to win this country boy’s little heart over, but the Grind apparently liked taking it to the next bourgeois level. Rather than using regular sugar, or even just a bucket of Splenda, the lemonade was sweetened with a lavender flavored syrup. Topped off with two packets of energy booster, and it was nirvana in a biodegradable cup. Jon had prepped it by the gallon earlier that morning, and he could easily see himself getting addicted to it. 

He loved when people ordered simple drinks like that; something where he could just add ice, pour this and that in, and call it done. Those orders are great. Amazing. 10/10. Then he looks over and sees the venti monstrosity with eight modifications. Suddenly he’s right back to hating everything. 

In a strange twist of fate, after finishing the new three items, it seemed like absolutely no one wanted to order cold drinks anymore. The number of cups by Terra only grew, and Jon had to hop back over to that god forsaken hell hole to help her out. 

“This is ridiculous.” Terra looked at the espresso machine as if it had walked in here screaming about being a Trump supporter.

“I’ll take the brews.” Jon grabbed four cups at once, sliding them across granite to the many different coffee pots sitting on warmers. He looked at each cup, seeing what kind of coffee was ordered and pouring them as instructed. Two of the drinks were served as is, the others had various different flavorings or dairies added to them. Still, they were easy. Jon came back to the hots station to find that Terra had grabbed the next drink she was working on out of order. Odd. They really weren’t supposed to do that…

“That one’s yours.” She nodded at the odd cup out.

Jon quirked up an eyebrow at his coworker. “What the hell are you—”

_ Damian _   
_ Latte _   
_ +1 vnl _   
_ +1 crml _   
_ X soy milk _

He whipped his head around, probably a lot faster than he should have, and saw Damian standing among the crowd. The older man kept his eye trained down, likely at his phone. Wow. How the hecketh had Jon missed his come in? Guess the café really  _ was  _ busy. 

By now, Jon knew this drink by memory. He poured out the usual amount of soy milk. As he was reaching for the flavored syrups, he suddenly felt upset, the slightest twinge of guilt mixed in, that he wasn’t going to be able to say to real hello to the other. They usually had such good conversations, and if this was the only time Jon was going to see the fellow, he felt bad that he wasn’t able to chat. In a moment of sheer panic and impulsiveness, Jon reached into his pocket and grabbed the BIC pen he most likely stole off his father’s desk. Without even thinking about it, he took the paper cup and wrote an absolutely stupid little something right above the Sharpied on name. This was stupid. This was so so stupid. 

_Have a nice day! =D_ _\- Jon_

Yep. Definitely stupid.

But he didn’t have time to try and come up with better. After rapid firing the right number of caramel and vanilla pumps into the drink, pouring in the caffeine content and steamed milk, Jon threw a lid and cardboard sleeve on the drink. He quickly brought it over to the pick-up counter, hoping that if he was fast enough, he could buy a seconds the actually say hello. “Damian!” He called out over the group of customers. 

On queue, the young Wayne pushed his way past random other customers Jon really didn’t care about. “Busy day?” 

“Very.” Jon offered a weak smile. He hoped to high heavens he didn’t look like really as big of a wreck as he felt. “Sorry. We’re really swamped right now.”

“I can see that.” The absolutely beautiful specimen of man looked around the café, then turned back and offered an almost pitying smile. “I’ll probably be back later on. Until then, good luck.”

“Thanks, pal.” Pal?  _ Pal? _ You done effed up Kent. Did you seriously just call him  _ pal _ ? Absolutely idiotic. 

Deciding he really wanted to avoid risking his little internal awkwardness from becoming external, Jon pushed away from the counter. Time to distract yourself from your horrendous lack of social skills, and instead drown yourself in hot bean juice.

* * *

Let it be known that a massive newspaper enterprise was an absolutely terrifying place to be on a Friday morning. It wasn’t exactly peaches and sunshine on a normal day, but today in particular, everyone seemed to be hustling and bustling, and even more caffeine dependent than usual. 

Jon pattered around the open office space. He could feel the eyes of physically drained and emotionally exhausted reporters following the movement of the two large cups of coffee in his hands. He gulped. Never before in his life did he think he would get jumped at the Daily Planet. 

He passed his father’s desk, expecting to see the mid-western man hunched over his computer, tip-tapping away, doing whatever the heck it is he does to make money. Unfortunately, when Jon got to the cubicle, no one was home. Well that made delivering coffee a whole lot less self gratifying. The teen just left his father’s cup on his desk. He didn’t bother leaving a note. Chances were his father would see the “DG” logo on the side and be able to put the pieces together. If he wasn’t able to, then  _ damn _ Kent, you a lousy reporter. 

Secret Mission: Coffee Addiction

Objective: 50% complete

With that out of the way, all Jon had to do was figure out where the heck his mother was. He leaned against the weird carpeted half wall surrounding Clark’s desk -- Who the flapjack looked at a two inch thick wall and thought “You know what this needs? Beige carpeting!”? Seriously? Whomst? -- scanning over the floor to try and find his mother. Apparently, finding a Strong Independent Woman in a sea of reporters was actually quite difficult. 

The teen let out a sigh, half-cupping one hand around his mouth before calling out into the crowd. “Up! Up!”

“And away!”

_ There she is. _

Jon followed the call and response three desks to the left and two up, where he found his mother spun around in her desk chair. She was clearly perplexed as to why her son had shown up, until held the paper cup out to her. “I bring a gift.”

“I raised you so well.” The woman accepted the drink and immediately brought it to her lips for a taste. She took a long sip, letting out one of those semi-annoying ‘aaah’s afterwards. “This is so much better than break room coffee.”

“I don’t think the standard is all that high.” Jon reclined his hip against the lip of his mother’s desk.

Lois glanced around the office briefly before turning her attention back to her teenager. “Go grab that chair from Alex. He’s out of office right now.” She gestured towards the desk across from hers with the lid of her to-go cup. 

Jon quickly took up on that offer, walking the four feet over to the other desk, sitting his butt down in the chair and wheeling himself back over to safety. He gripped onto the edge of the desk when he got closer, and used it to pull himself into the cubicle. “Where’s Dad? I didn’t see him.”

“Oh, he’s probably just meeting with the editor one last time.” Lois crossed her legs. “You should read his article for tomorrow. It’s his best work in a while.”

Jon hummed in interest. His hands rested on the chair cushion between his legs, his arms straightened out so his elbows were locked. “I thought he was just writing a column piece.”

Lois shook her head. She took one more sip from her coffee before setting it down on her desk. “You know him. When he says he’s writing something small, it always turns into something big.”

“Neato.” 

“So how did Conner get off? I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to your father about it yet today.”

That was definitely a lie. Lois without a doubt knew every single detail of Kon’s flight back. A bet could be made that one of the tabs open on her computer right now was tracking his exact flight to make sure it landed on time. It wasn’t a helicopter parent thing. She just liked keeping in the know. Now, did Jon play into the conversation topic anyways? Without second thought. “Pretty well. It was early, so the lines weren’t long yet.”

“That’s good. He’s not the most patient person in the world.” Boy oh boy wasn’t that just the truth? Don’t get me wrong now. Kon could be a charmer. But he was the kind of guy where if a recipe said “bake at three-fifty degrees for forty minutes”, he would crank the oven up to four-fifty and bake it for twenty. 

“He said he’s gonna try and see us again before summer ends.” Jon swung his knees from side to side, the swaying making the spinny chair turn with him. “Apparently airfare’s the big issue?”

Lois nodded knowingly. “California to Delaware is an expensive trip. We paid for his flight this time because it was a surprise for you, but normally your brother pays for his own trips.”

“Oh… Well thanks for that.” Jon smiled wide. “It was really cool to have him here.”

Lois licked her thumb, reaching forward to rub a smudge off of Jon’s cheekbone. One of her more motherly smiles settled on her features. “So what are you doing right now?”

“I’m on break.” He closed his eyes, sitting still to let his mother arrange his bangs in a way she would apparently approve of. “I’ve got two hours between shifts today.” 

“Two hours, huh?” The woman pulled her sleeve back, inspecting the face of the watch she wore. “What are your thoughts on lunch?”

“It’s my favorite subject in school.” The teen kidded. “Lunch would be great.”

“Perfect.” The woman turned her chair back around so she could grab her purse off of her desk. She double checked she saved the documents currently open on her computer, and had everything she would need. “Let me see if I can’t find your father first. He’d like to spend time with you before he leaves for the weekend. In the meantime, think about what you want to eat.”

“Yes Ma’am!” Jon gave a mock salute and a slanted smile. He stayed put at her desk he watched his mother see about tracking his father down.

* * *

**Group MSS: The Bro, Mom, Dad**

**The Bro**   
_ Landed! _

**Mom**   
_ Oh good! Hope the flight wasn’t too uncomfortable. _

**The Bro**   
_ Slept through most of it _

**Mom**   
_ Well that’s definitely one of the better ways to spend a flight. Is someone coming to pick you up at the airport? If not, log into my Uber account and get a ride home. I remember it was an expensive cab ride, and I don’t want you to worry about it. _

**Dad**   
_ Hey sport! Good to hear it. _

**The Bro**   
_ Hey Dad _   
_ My roommates gonna pick me up. Thanks though _   
_ Yeah I’ll text you when I get home _

**Mom**   
_ Alright. _   
_ Don’t forget to keep in touch. We’re thinking about a beach trip and a visit to Ma and Pa later this summer. I’ll let you know the details when they’re more set in stone. _

**The Bro**   
_ I’ll to my best. _   
_ *do _

**Mom**   
_ You better. We miss you too much. _

_ we’re gonna see ma and pa?????  _

**Dad**   
_ We’ll talk about it later. _

_ coolbeans _

* * *

 

“Are the checks here?” Jon practically ran behind the service counter, pushing past the door into the storeroom, to the manager’s office. 

“Oh hi there Jon.” Jocelyn sat at her desk, doing who-knows-what on her computer -- hopefully it was actual work and she wasn’t just playing Minecraft or something -- while her phone seemed to be playing Saturday Night Live clips from four years ago in the background. She shined a smile that was say too big for anyone working customer service at her teenaged, underpaid peasant. “What’s going on?”

Jon immediately straightened up, adjusting his cap on his head so it was perfectly positioned. His photograph could be on the damned cover of Barista’s Monthly. “Just wanted to know if they paychecks came in yet.” 

“Not yet.” The woman shook her head. 

Soul: crushed.

“Oh… Um… Alright then.” Suddenly this was really awkward. “I’ll just go clock back in then.”

“You’ll know the second they get here, Jon.”

The teenager just nodded in response and went back to the front of the store.

Since Jon had started working on an off week, and the curse of the financial world was bi-weekly paydays, the check that was coming in the mail today was about to be Jon’s first ever paycheck. His parents both tried to reassure him by saying that this check would represent four weeks of pay, and he should be excited for the fat wad of cash coming his way. Oh and he was. He was very excited. If he did the math right, adding up all of his extra shifts he’d been allowed to pick up, Jon was at least eighty percent sure he was looking to deposit just around one thousand dollars — of course, taxes were an absolute bear and he had no idea how they would factor into the money he was  _ actually _ earning… — Needless to say the vast majority of that dough was going straight into his savings.

Jon stuck his tongue out at Terra when he saw her clocking back in as well. They were scheduled to work another damned double together. Most people would gripe and groan, because let’s be real here, Terra wasn’t exactly some happy-go-lucky valley girl who got along with everyone and smiled like the chorus to Walking on Sunshine was playing in her head at all times. But truthfully?..... She was a stone cold bitch and Jon loved her for it. If she was a fictional character, he’d probably stan her bisexual queen energy until the day he died.

“Ready for another go?” He chuckled, watching as his coffee brewing compadre rolled her eyes in her usual teenager overly dramatic manner — Did it hurt when people did that? It looks like your eyes are literally going backwards. That had to hurt, right? — Jon looked over the coffee bar, trying to see if there was anything he really needed to do right now.

“I don’t want to be here.” Nice. Just put that right out there. No secrets here on the afternoon shift apparently.

“Didn’t you swap with Ennis for this shift?” Jon looked over the coffee pots, and saw just about everything was either freshly brewed, or in the process of brewing. 

“Well yeah.” The girl shrugged. She grabbed a wet washcloth and started cleaning off the nozzles for the different syrups. “Cause Jaime was trying to switch to get that shift yesterday, but that meant we had to do a weird three way swap in order for everyone’s schedules to still work out.”

“Oh. Exam?” Apparently all the cookies and sandwiches were freshly stocked up too. Damn. There really wasn’t a whole lot of prep to do right now…. Was that good, or bad?

“Hmm? What?” Terra looked at the other barista with a quizzical look before the question apparently clicked. “Oh. No. Something to do with his boyfriend being in town.”

“Oh that’s coo—”

_ Erch skerch _

_ Blond girl with an attitude say what now? _

Jon whirled around to look at his coworker with wide eyes and a completely dumbfounded expression. His mind theater was working in overdrive, replaying the past three minutes to make sure he’d heard that right. He  _ had  _ heard that right… right? For the love of all that is holy please tell him he’d heard that right. “ _ Whomst?” _

“Jaime and his boyfriend?” Terra was apparently just as confused as Jon was. She looked over the other, probably noting the obvious shookness. “Did he seriously not tell you about him?”

“No. It never came up.” There was another gay at work.  _ There was another gay at work. There  was another gay at work! _

“Yeah they’ve been together for a while now. I think a couple years?” The girl apparently had already lost interest in Jon’s probably overly severe reaction, and went back to cleaning up goop covered bottles. “I’ve never really met the kid, but I’ve seen pics. He’s pretty cute.”

Wow. Terra Markov calling someone cute? Jaime’s a damn lucky guy then cause this mystery boy must be a solid eight and a half at the  _ least _ . Now Jon just couldn’t stop thinking about it. How had he not known? He had thought his gaydar was pretty solid. Then again… Jaime didn’t seem to talk about a whole lot of his personal business, outside of complaining about school work and the like. Plus, Jon was still pretty knew here, and from experience, he knew that bringing up sexualities wasn’t exactly something that came up casually. Still, he held onto that little mental sticky note like it was a treasure. Maybe he could talk to Jaime… If the guy was up for it… Maybe?

He started organizing the drink cups, just trying to find something to do. It was crazy how this place could go from being like traffic on the Autobahn in the morning to more barren than Tuba City, Arizona the next. -- Seriously. He wouldn’t be surprised if he saw a tumbleweed drift on by -- For some reason, organizing cups just seemed like the most useful thing he could be doing right now.

“Don’t you have that little boy toy of yours too?”

There was an audible clatter as a stack of large paper to-go mugs toppled over to the floor on the opposite side of the register. Jon’s first reaction was to curse under his breath, his second was to turn back to Terra. He probably looked like someone had just run his foot over with an eighteen wheeler, because his jaw was dropped, although just barely, face beet-red, with his glasses slipping down the curve of his nose. The summarize? Boy was shook.

“I’m sorry,  _ what?” _

“Oh please. You know exactly who I’m talking about.” Terra balled up the washcloths in her hands before shooting it like a basketball into the sink. She then leaned back against the now clean counter, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Mr. short, dark, and handsome who has you drooling every time he comes in.”

Alright Kent. Collect yourself. Act natural. You can do this. She has no proof.

Jon pushed his glasses back up against the bridge of his nose, maybe a little too rough with how the plastframes dug just slightly into the skin between his eyes. He tried to look composed — and probably failed — as he hopped up on the counter between the two registers and slip across to the other side. He squatted down to pick up all the fallen cups that were now scattered across the floor. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Girl, don’t you dare lie to me.” Terra apparently made her way over the space behind the counter to lean over one of the designers, her arms still crossed but now resting on top of the monitor. “I know. You know. Tbh, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the headliner one of these days.”

“Stop it.” He stacked the cups neatly ontology of each other.

“This just in! Disaster queer makes countless wait so he can make latte for out-of-his-league business’s man.”

“Terra.” Jon stood up and slammed the stack of cups down on the counter. “Stop.”

“Did I make you mad?” For some reason, that Jon really couldn’t comprehend, the girl had a grin on her face. 

Dammit. She was probably plotting or something. Jon let out a sigh, fixing where the stack of cups was so everything was organized once more. “Yes.”

“Good.” She grabbed two of the small plastic cups, and input two orders into the register, probably marking them down as shift drinks so they got that sweet ninety percent discount. The blond used some of the loose change building up in the tip jar to cover the remaining dollar and thirty cents needed to pay for the drinks. “Now come back here and talk to me about it.”

“Oh…. Ok. Sure.” Huh. He wasn’t expecting that. The teen took a quick look around the café — Yep. This bitch empty — The dominant thought running through Jon’s mind right now was definitely “well shit”, but a very close second was just wondering what the hell he even wanted to say. He fell into place next to Terra, leaning back against the counter top and watched as they girl shoveled ice into the cups. “I dunno. It’s just a crush. Not much to talk about.”

“There’s always stuff to talk about.” Terra filled both cups with the raspberry-lavender lemonade. She took a look inside the cooler containing the drink to make sure there was still plenty left afterwards and they wouldn’t need to make more. Judging by the fact that she didn’t immediately speed off to find the juice concentrate and electric mixer. 

“I just think he’s cool.” Jon happily took the cup into his hand when it was offered to him. He grabbed the used washcloth from behind him and wiped the condensation off so he hand wouldn’t get wet while he held it. “He’s a lot of fun to talk to.”

“He’s pretty cute too.”

“Uh, ya think?” He let out a snort, raising a brow at the other teen. His humorous glint quickly turned into a sigh as he bit at the lip of his cup, digging his bottom row of teeth under the rounded plastic rim and pulling at it until it uncoiled. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s just a stupid little crush, and nothing’s ever gonna come from it.”

“Why not?” Terra shrugged. She completely downed half her drink in one go, and was now fishing out an ice cube with her finger. “Just go for it. Worst thing he can do is say no.”

Jon frowned at that.

“What? What did I say?”

“Nothing it’s just…” He took another sip. “That’s just exactly what my brother said.”

* * *

What do you get when you cross a teenager, four hours of sleep, and a crummy customer service job? Even though that question definitely sounds like the horrible set up to a joke on the back of a cherry-red stained popsicle stick, the answer is not “a ballpoint banana.” No. The answer is a lot less fun than that. No, instead it was more so that meme of a cartoon dog with the bowler hat, sitting at a table while everything around the little bastard was on fire. You know:  _ This Is Fine. _

Jon was running completely on autopilot, barely registering what was happening around him as he made drink after drink. Overall, he thought he was doing pretty alright --  _ thought _ \-- That is, until he completely zoned out, only to come to and suddenly have a caramel latte in his hands. He had absolutely no recollection of the cup being passed to him, let alone making it. The absolute weirdest part? No one actually ordered one… 

So here he was… 

Holding this latte… 

That he just… 

_ Made _ … 

That no one ordered….

He looked around the café, seeing various people sitting at the different tables, and only one lady standing in line at the register -- she was just staring up at the chalkboard menu as if some random deity would suddenly pop out and tell her what to order -- but Terra was standing by the register, impatiently tapping her hand against the counter top. Jon just shrugged and took a sip.

Ew.  _ Ew _ .

Gross gross gross. Ew. No. Nope. This is so gross. So bitter. Who the fuck drank these things? Oh my god why. Nope.

The teen’s entire face scrunched up, a shiver going down his back as the taste of hot espresso and steamed milk tainted the inside of his mouth. The face he made perfectly mirrored the Mr. Yuk magnet that had somehow survived the eighties, and still had a place on the fridge at home. He popped off the plastic lid and took the drink over to the syrupss, where he quickly pumped in two pumps of caramel and one pump of chocolate sauce. After stirring it, making sure it was all mixed up, he took another sip.

Ick. Nope. Still gross.

He crossed over to the pick-up counter and grabbed a handful of sugar packets, bringing them back over to his crappy drink -- Ok. Cutting in real quick here. Just in case anyone out there thinks “oh, well maybe Jon just made the drink wrong.” No. I haven’t messed up a single drink since starting at this coffee shop. Shut up. I definitely made it right. Coffee’s just gross. It’s not good. It’s bitter bean juice. No wonder everyone who drinks it is angry all the time! It tastes like burned rust. How could anyone enjoy that? -- He started pouring the sugar in, not even bothering to count the number of packets he was using. There was a carnage of ripped paper around the table top. When he grabbed a little wooden stirring stick, it felt like there was easily an inch of granulated sugar just sitting at the bottom of his cup. Thankfully enough, the latte was still hot, so it all  _ did _ dissolve… Eventually.  Jon brought the drink up to his lips and took another sip. It just tasted like hot, liquid sugar: Perfection.

Terra stepped up next to him to pump chocolate sauce into a blender. She looked over the sheer number of empty sugar packets an scoffed. “That’s disgusting.”

“Well, excuse me for liking my taste buds.” Jon took another swig of pure C 6 H 12 O 6 with a smile. The only thing that would have made it better would be if it was iced.

His fellow barista just rolled her eyes, then nudged Jon in the hip so he moved out of her way. It didn’t take long for her to prepare the frappuccino she was working on, and slam it into place on whatever-the-heck you call the button half of a blender. “Mind cleaning off the counter now that you made a mess?”

“Yeah, I can do that.” The latte was very carefully placed on top of the espresso machine, where everyone would know it was spoken for. Jon bent down, reached into one of the lower cabinets, and grabbed a fresh washclothe. He soaked it in the nearby sink, shivering at how ice cold the water was. The teen made sure to wring it out before dropping it on the counter top with a splat. To be completely honest, he had no idea if the sugar was somehow soaking up into the towel, or if the crystals were just being brushed onto the floor. But after a little wax-on-wax-off action, the bar was clean enough to lick.

Time seemed to pass by just about as quickly as the Molasses Swamp in Candyland. If this shift was put up in a race against a snail on crutches, the snail would win. No contest. There was only so much wiping, sweeping, and restocking this little barista could do before it became completely unnecessary. Ten minutes passed, and not a single customer came in. Another five, and the only thing to do was take the trash out, but Terra took care of that. Six minutes after that, and Jon was sitting up next to the register, flipping through today’s copy of the Planet. He was pretty absorbed in the Funnies when he just vaguely heard the door chime sound off.

“Oh good. You’re still here.” 

Jon looked up from the article he was reading to see Damian swerving through the line snake, and stepping up to the register. He blinked a few times as he registered the guy’s presence, but his confusion quickly turned into excitement. “Hi! Yeah. I’m still here.” The seventeen year old folded the newspaper up, tucking it between the cashbox and the display of Daily Grind brand coffee mugs they had for sale. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“I told you earlier this morning I was coming back.” There was an amused simper on his face as he tilted his head to the side just slightly. 

As per usual, Jon just couldn’t help himself. He did his absolute best not to look like he was checking Damian out, but he was definitely checking Damian out. The man was simultaneously dressed professionally, and more casually than Jon had ever seen him before. A wine red button down shirt was neatly tucked into the waistband of black slacks, the sleeves rolled up just above his elbows. He wasn’t wearing a tie today, and with the top button undone, it allowed the crisp collar to open up. Where Damian would normally have at least some evidence of a suit jacket, either on his person, or folded over his arm, today the man wore a black vest, the material perfectly matching his pants, with four copper buttons neatly fastened. The fellow had a  _ very _ nice looking black leather flapover briefcase slung over his shoulder, the strap going over his body so that the case was rested against the opposite hip. 

Oh Jon. You useless lesbian.

“Did ya?” He scratched at the back of his neck, really hoping he wasn’t blushing or anything. “Sorry. I was so swamped, I didn’t really hear ya.”

“Completely understandable.” The man leaned one hand on the table, reaching the other to pull the folded up newspaper from where Jon had tucked it away. “You were really busy today.”

“Friday mornings usually suck.” Jon watched at the fellow shifted so his could lean his hip against the solid surface of the counter, and started skimming through the paper.

“Hmm. I have noticed that before.” He seemed to just be looking through the headlines of the different articles. “Anything worth reading today?”

“Oh uh, I didn’t get far.” Jon crossed his wrists on top of the cash register’s monitor. “I was just looking at the culture section.”

“Ah, yes. Popular culture.” Damian seemed to chuckle to himself, the movement catching in his shoulders, as he thumbed past the politics and sports. “You know, I always read this section, but I never have any idea who any of these people are.”

“That’s valid. None of it’s ever really exciting anyways.” The barista shrugged. He looked over to see if he could catch a glimpse of the article Damian was currently open to. “I was just lookin for the concert dates.”

“Anyone good coming to town?” The man nodded. He shut the paper, instead starting to read the front page. The big headline for today was the Capital Gazette shooting in Annapolis, Maryland. It immediately brought on a frown, and understandably so. Damian let out a sigh, then folded the newspaper up and placed it down on the table.

“No one I’m interested in.” A total lie. Shakira was going to be coming through Metropolis in August, and Jon and Kathy had a solid two hour screaming session via facebook messenger trying to figure out if they could somehow get enough money between the two of them to go. But he wasn’t about to profess his love for the Columbian Queen TM in the middle of his second shift. “So uh… How was work?”

“Reasonable.” Damian brought a hand to his face, resting his chin on the pad of his thumb while his pointer finger curled in a hook across his lips. “Most of my coworkers were attempting to suck up to me today.”

Jon let out a stupid little snort. “You seriously.”

“Very. It was amusing.” There was an upward curve in the corner of olive green eyes. Unfortunately, his smile was half covered by his hand -- how dare he -- so Jon wasn’t able to catch more than a glimpse of it. 

“Any reason for it?”

“I’m seeing my father this weekend.”

_ Right.  _

_ Wayne. _

Damian  _ Wayne. _ Which meant his father was  _ Bruce _ Wayne, the head honcho to Wayne Enterprises. A.k.a all of Damian’s coworker’s boss’s boss’s  _ boss’s _ boss. 

Yeah. Jon could see why that was a big deal. 

“Well that’s exciting.” He tried to feign some kind of ignorance while maintaining interest. “But why are they sucking up to you?”

“Everyone wants me to put in a good word for them.” Damian shrugged. The movement caused his briefcase to slip off his shoulder, so he quickly pulled at the pad to readjust it. “It’s truly ridiculous. They should know the best way for me to mention them to him would be to do exceptional work.”

“You mean bribery won’t work?” Jon gasped, theatrically bringing a hand to his chest; a very over dramatic way to fake surprise. “But good sir! Corruption makes the world go round.”

That apparently was very funny to Damian, because the nineteen year old — is was nineteen right? Jon wasn’t messing that up right? — gave a little two-step chuckle. “I’m not  _ nearly _ as corrupt as the majority of the CEOs and board members I’ve had to interact with.”

“Ah-ha!” Jo grinned wide, pointing an accusatory finger at the boy across the counter from him. “But that’s implying you’re at least somewhat corrupt, ergo, you totally accept bribes.”

“Did you just use “ergo” in a sentence?” Damian quirked an eyebrow, a bemused expression on his face.

Jon just shrugged. “And what if I did?”

If this was a Disney Channel original movie, the two of them would stare at each other while a slowed down instrumental version of the climactic duet they would eventually sing to each other played in the background. Only problem? This may be Jon Kent, but you’re definitely  _ not _ watching Disney Channel. He doesn’t have some weird glowy wand to draw out CGI Mickey Mouse ears with. Nope. Instead he has social anxiety and a whole list of dad jokes save to the notes app on his phone. So rather than having “a moment”, or so to speak, the conversation just continued to flow as you’d probably expect.

“Alright then.” Damian crossed his arms over his chest. He did it differently than anyone else Jon knew. Most people tucked their hands against their sides, either along their ribs or up into their armpits. But Damian crossed his arms with his hands going out, not in, so that they rested on top of his elbows. “What could you possibly be trying to bribe me with?”

“Overpriced coffee?” The barista grabbed one of the mid-sized paper cups from the stack by the register, and the uncapped sharpie on top of the cash box. “I can put a few extra pumps of caramel in there for ya.”

“A tempting offer.” One arm dropped to reach into what was likely very close to the most expensive pair of pants Jon had ever seen, and pulled out a black leather wallet. “But what could you possibly be bribing me for?”

_ Dem digits? _

“I dunno. I didn’t think I’d get this far.” Jon scribbled the usual order out of the cup -- it was a formality -- then punched it into the register. 

Damian let out the barrest titter of a laugh as he picked one of his credit cards out and slid the chip into the card reader. “Let me know if you come up with something. I don’t like having debts.”

“Yessir.” Great. The midwest accent real thick there. Nice going. Alright. Be cool. You can work with this. Uh……. Tip your hat! That’ll totally work. It’ll make it look like a joke… Hopefully…. Jon, for some reason, listened to the voice in his head -- a horrible decision really -- and tipped the brim of his cap. It wasn’t the most awkward thing he’d ever done, and yet, here he was; if he was someone else, he would be embarrassed to be seen with himself. To avoid any more self inflicted humiliation he turned tight on his heels, going to the milk steamer to start making the drink. 

“You can take your time if you like.” Damian tucked his wallet back into his pocket. He then side stepped out of the line, over to the pick up counter. “I’m not in a rush today.”

It was pretty easy to notice the look Terra was giving him right now. One of those “I’m totally judging you right now you gay disaster” looks. Valid. Jon just elected to ignore her. It wasn’t like there was a line, and he was  _ technically _ taking care of a customer. So it was fine. Totally, completely, obviously fine. 

“You don’t have to scale the Mount Everest of paperwork?” Once Jon got the soy milk a-steamin, he stepped over to put caramel and vanilla syrups into the paper cup. Four pumps of caramel totally wasn’t overkill right? There couldn’t possibly be such a thing as too much caramel.

“Not this time.” Mr. Hot Stuff over here unrolled one of the sleeves of his crimson dress shirt, before refolding it, making sure the fabric was neatly creased until it settled almost perfectly above the bend in his elbow. “I made sure I wouldn’t have any work this weekend.”

“Oh right. You’re seeing your folks.” Having this conversation with his back turned wasn’t exactly the most convenient thing in the world, but there wasn’t exactly much Jon could do about that. Jon might have every single drink memorized, but he wasn’t about to try pouring hot espresso and steamed milk behind his back. “Do you have to travel far for that?”

“Just Gotham. It’s a quick drive.”

“Oh yeah.” Jon hummed as he stirred the contents of the latte together. “My dad’s gonna be in Gotham too, funnily enough.”

“I sure hope so. I asked my father to extend the invitation.”

Jon sputtered as he put the lid on the cup. Thank god he was at least marginally graceful, because he nearly tipped over the whole drink. That would have been just  _ perfect _ . After somehow managing to compose himself -- are you ever truly composed when you’re in high school? -- Jon slipped a paper sleeve on the cup and walked it over to Damian. “Is uh… Is that why he’d going?” He passed the drink across the counter.

“Thank you very much.” Damian let out a soft sigh when he held the cup in his hand.

“Oh, uh, yer welcome.” Jon tapped his fingers against the pockets of his jeans. “So um…”

“It’s a charity event.” The young Wayne seemed to be able to read Jon’s mind. “Every year my father throws a fundraiser around the Fourth of July in order to raise money for a veteran support program in Gotham.”

“Oh… That’s really cool actually.” Jon picked at a weird little crusty spot on the surface of the wooden counter. “I’ve hear about those big kinds of events from my parents. They’ve both covered a lot of stuff like that. I always thought they sounded kinda boring though.”

“I’m not a fan.” There was a slump in the man’s shoulders, but it was quickly masked as he lifted his latte to take a sip. The gracious smile on his face never faltered. “But I haven’t been back in a few months now, so I’m being guilted back.”

“Maybe you can just hang back with family and friends or something.” Did friends go to this kind of thing? It was probably fair to assume he was friends with at least  _ some _ of the people there. But then again. You know what they say when you assume? You make an ass out of you and me.

Damian, bless him, just tilted his head to the side, as if he were really considering Jon’s suggestion. Of course, there was no way of knowing. Rich kid over here was probably used to entertaining and mingling, and pretending to get along with all the hoity-toits along the eastern seaboard. “I’ll manage somehow.”

You see. The weird thing about talking to Damian here at work, was that there were so many ways for Damian to leave, and so few for him to stay. The order had been paid for. The latte was in his hands. Any normal person would never have even started a conversation with their barista, let alone continued it. Sure. Maybe he was just trying to be nice because Jon would give him free caramel. But once the coffee actually changed hands, it would make sense for Damian to just politely say “thanks fam”, then skiddaddle. Even now, after the conversation  _ should _ have just ended, and he  _ should _ have gone on his merry way, hopped in his expensive car, and driven across the Delaware Bay, Damian just… stayed. He stayed. His waited for Jon to pick up the conversation again, and when Jon hesitated -- because of course he did -- Damian picked up the slack.

“Sorry for stealing your father away for the weekend.” The man glanced down at the paper cup in his hands. Thumbs pulled at the plastic overhang of the lid, producing an off-beat  _ snap _ . 

“It’s fine. I’m pretty used to them heading out for a few days.” Jon immediately felt the need to reassure his crush that everything was fine. “Besides. It’s not actually the fourth, so he won’t miss out on the fireworks.”

“Did you have anything planned for the weekend?” What an innocent yet horribly anxiety inducing question. Either say no, and sound like a lazy bum, or say yes, and lie through your teeth.

Welp. Mama didn’t raise a liar. “Well, no actually I--”

You know how nothing about working customer service ever has good timing? Of course you do. If you don’t, one day you will young padawan.

Just as Jon was about to reply, the  _ dumb fucking bell _ from the door leading into the Daily Planet lobby swung open, one very poor, unfortunate looking unpaid intern coming in. 

“Yo, Jon. Ring this one up.” Terra, who had honestly been doing God knows what this whole time, stepping back to the drink station. She had that ‘don’t you dare make me interact with a customer right now’ vibe. 

“I’ll uh…” Jon looked over at the poor girl who came through line to the register. He held up one finger to Damian. “Hold that though, will ya?” He shot his crush an apologetic smile before rushing his butt over to the register. His voice went up an octave as he greeted the customer. He had absolutely no idea who this girl was, but rather than just giving him the orders, she pulled out a written list. 

“I’m sorry it’s so long.” She handed the list over to him. “Metropolis Tonight is getting ready for the afternoon broadcast, and everyone’s kinda dying.”

“Hey no worries.” Jon flashed his best ‘please tip me’ smile. He held the list in one hand as he tapped the instructions for each order in. Each time he inputted one, he quickly grabbed the appropriate cup, scribbled the drink and name going with it on the side, then passed it back to Terra. “I know how normal reporters get during that Friday afternoon slump. I don’t even want to think about the ones that have to sound chipper on air.”

“They’re… They’re a lot.” Tired looking intern girl pulled a wad of cash from her walet when the total for the order appeared on the register. “Just keep the change.”

_ Score! _

“Well thank you, miss.” Jon beamed at her. “We’ll get those drinks goin for ya.” He barely registered her thank you before stepping back to help Terra out. There were eight drinks total; not exactly a fun time but nothing was overly complicated. It could be worse. He got started on the one frappuccino in the order. Prepping it quickly, and jamming it in the blender. Once the Bay Blades were doing their thing, Jon scooped ice into the plastic cups reserved for iced drinks. One of them was a half-caf coffee, no cream, the other a dark cold brew, hella cream. 

It took two of those weird little cardboard tray things stacked on top of each other for all the drinks to be carryable. Jon had to rush to hold the door open for the girl as she left the café, watching her with a worried look as she somehow balanced the stack in her arms.

“Ten bucks says she drops them.” Terra called out the second the girl was out the door.

Jon found himself snorting. He bumped a first into his coworker’s shoulder. “Oh my god don’t say that. Then we’d have to remake the order.”

“But it would be so good.”

“No. No it wouldn’t be.” Jon just rolled his eyes, then walked back over to the pick-up counter, where Damian was for some reason still just hanging out. Like… He wasn’t complaining. If the hot boy wanted to waste his Friday afternoon talking to a coffee shop worker, then there was no way on this God given Earth Jon was about to complain. “Sorry about that.”

“No need to apologize. You’re doing your job.” The man took a long sip from his drink, and Jon really hoped it wasn’t weird to get all giddy by how Damian had just the smallest semblance of a smile from a drink Jon had made. It was the little thing in life folks. 

“Anywhoo,” he leaned his elbows onto the counter. “As I was saying, I have the weekend off, so my mom and I are probably gonna do something my dad hates.”

“What could that possibly entail?” That sweet, amused smirk blessed Jon once more. Heck. This boy had such a cute smile.

Jon shrugged. He lifted a hand and started counting possible offenses on his fingers. “Get Ethiopian food, watch Mamma Mia, move all of the furniture in the living room two inches to the left.”

Damian started coughing around the lip of his latte. Apparently he’d chosen that prime time to take a swig, but he clearly had much more grace that Jon ever possibly could, because he just cleared his throat and made a full recovery. God, that totally wasn’t fair! If that had been Jon, steamed milk would have shot up his nose. Actually, he probably would have just died all together. RIP me. But Damian? Damian just coughed twice, maybe three times, into the heel of his palm, then  _ bam! _ The bitch was fine.

“Please don’t die. That would be bad for business.” Jon pulled a few paper napkins out of a nearby dispenser and handed the stack to the other.

“I don’t plan on it.” Damian smiled as he accepted the wipes. He dabbed them at his lips, effectively disposing of any evidence that latte had made it anywhere other than his mouth. The man then wrapped the used napkin inside of a clean one. “But I appreciate the concern.”

“Well, you know me.” The teen shrugged. “I’m always here to be concerned.”

“Actually, I don’t believe I do know you all that---”

“ _ Mail!" _

Jon just about jumped out of his skin when Jocelyn practically teleported right behind him and screamed in his ears. Of course, she was actually a respectful all-the-way-across-the-room from him, but her overwhelmingly peppy holler was loud enough to shake the soul. When he finally big find a way to scrape all of his fragile masculinity that all but scattered across the floor, Jon turned to see his boss waving way too enthusiastically at a US postal worker stepped in with a large envelope in hand. He watched as she signed for the parcel before heading back into her office. Even more peculiar, was that Terra seemed to  _ fragging bolt _ after the woman. 

Suddenly, realization hit him. “Oh heck.”

Now… Looking back… He probably should have properly excused himself from the little conversation he and Damian had been attempting to have. When he looked back on it latter he would make sure to look for the breadcrumbs he’d left to the old witches house in the woods, and promptly dive head first into her four-fifty degree oven. But sacrificing yourself to a semi-cannibalistic witch could wait. Jon all but ran the twelve feet into the back of the store to Jocelyn’s office. When he got there, the woman was already seated in her IKEA Renberget swivel chair, sorting through a stack of standard 4 ⅛ x 9 ½ inch envelopes before picking one out and handing it over to Terra. The blonde girl actually showed what looked like a genuine smile as she all but ripped the envelope open.

“Jon, come here.” Jocelyn licked her thumb before flipping through the stack again. She pulled another envelope out from the pile and held it out to him. “This one’s yours. Make sure not to lose it.”

“Thanks.” He quickly took the parcel, seeing his name very clearly printed behind that little round-cornered plastic film window on the envelope. He  _ beep beep beep _ -ed out of the office space like a truck in reverse, before spinning around on his heels and walking back into the store front. Before he had a chance to open up the package, two plastic cups were thrusted into his chest.

“Make these.” Terra was back at the register before Jon could say “frappuccino”, and he was at the blenders almost just as quickly.

A few things you gotta know about Tara “Terra” Markov; 

  1. Her favorite Spotify playlist is title “Let’s Get Crunk”.
  2. She redoes her own undercut once a week with the same sheers she uses for her Labradoodle.
  3. Her handwriting is _atrocious_



Jon spent a solid minute and a half deciphering hieroglyphics before he finally figured out that one of the drinks was probably an iced covfefe with room for crumbs, and the other was something that might have mocha and he assume needed to be blended. Now, “mocha” could very easily have actually been “matcha” or “Moana”, but seeing as a Disney princess wasn’t a possible ingredient, Jon placed his bets on the chocolate. The drinks were made easily, and hopefully correctly, before Jon brought them over to the pick-up counter. Thankfully, the customers were standing right there and recognized their drinks right away, so the teen didn’t have to butcher any names. From the looks on their faces, he somehow managed to make the right drinks. That, or these people just had the decency not to complain. 

With, you know, work out of the way, Jon was  _ once again _ able to look back at Damian, who was for some reason still here. Once glance indicated that the older individual of the masculine orientation had finished his own coffee order and tossed the cup out. Which once again brought up the question Jon had been asking in his head like a broken record….

_ F O R   W H Y _

“It appears we were interrupted again.” Damian messed with the golden latch on his wrist watch. 

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Jon leaned his right side against the counter, reaching into the pocket for the envelope again. He picked at the seal on the back, completely fraying the flap until he eventually managed to open the packet. 

“Is it a letter from your husband overseas?” The customer quirked an eyebrow up high. He was clearly interested, though he politely kept his gaze away to avoid looking like he was trying to pry into the contents.

Well that was just asking for Jon to go too far with a joke, now wasn’t it. He quickly threw on his best ‘southern belle’ voice, then clutched the envelope close to his chest. “My soldier boy writes me once a week, right after his Sunday prayer.” He batted his eyes almost too quickly. Normally he would have tried to keep the joke running a little longer, but he started cracking up at himself. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. It’s my paycheck.”

Damian nodded in understanding. “Very nice.” 

“Yeah, it’s my first one too.” He peeked into the envelope to look at the check inside. The teen didn’t even bother hiding the wide grin on his face when he saw it was written out for one thousand, one hundred and thirty two smackaroos. It was roughly three and a half weeks worth of pay because he hadn’t made the first paycycle when he first started up. This would definitely be the fattest check he’d ever get here, but he was loving it either way. “God bless.”

“Happy with it?”

“Definitely.” He folded the envelope up, check inside, and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Gonna pop that right into the bank account.”

“Ah. You’re a saver.” Damian hummed. The older man nodded, as if he completely approved of Jon’s money management methods. “That’s good. Best not to spend it all in one place.”

“Yeah. I’m saving up actually.” Jon patted the pockets of his work apron in a random rhythm. He looked at Damian and the lack of drink in his hands. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Hm? Oh. An iced coffee would be lovely.” The man nodded his thanks as Jon quickly grabbed a plastic cup and filled it with a scoop of ice and their iced french roast. He topped it off with soy milk and cream, just the way Damian always liked it. When the cup was handed to him, Damian said a quick thanks and took a grateful sip. He passed a five dollar bill to Jon to pay for it. “Are you saving for anything in particular?”

“A car.”

“Really? Wow.” Both perfectly on fleek eyebrows went up, creating just the slightest crease in the skin of this valued customers forehead. “That’s quite the expense.”

“You’re tellin me?” Jon let out a soft little snort. It took a quick step to the side and all of five seconds to input the drink into the register and get Damian’s change. It was all of forty three cents, but hey. Change was change. He rested both of his forearms along the curve of the counter top, handing the coins to his most valued customer, and clasping his hands together. “I’ll probably spend at least a little bit though. Gotta have at least a little fun.”

“What kind of fun would that be then?” For some totally weird, completely inconceivable reason, Damian leaned forward too. The man rested his elbow on the wooden surface, with the point of his chin pressed to his knuckles. There was a playful simper across his face and a gleam in his eyes that was -- Oh my. Dare I say it? No. No it really couldn’t possibly be…But what if it was? Well it couldn’t be… But what if it was? Dare I? ….. I think I dare --  _ flirty _ . “Purchasing Mamma Mia on DVD, or hiring a moving service to do all the hard work for you?”

[GAY PANIC]

Something was seriously blessing this coffee shop today because Jon suddenly felt like he could have choked on air. His face felt hot. His palms were sweaty. Mom’s spaghetti. The teenaged flop of a human being bit down on his own tongue to try and shock himself out of stalling like Hulu when the wifi suddenly dropped. He chuckled awkwardly, using it as a buffer as he messed with the frames of his glasses. “Nah. It’s not funny if I don’t do all the hard work myself. I’ll probably see if someone wants to hang out or something tomorrow.” 

Damian hummed to himself. The fellow took another sip of his coffee. “That sounds nice.”

If you’ve ever seen Spongebob Squarepants, or if you’ve just spent enough of your life wasting away on the interwebs, you might be familiar with the Brain Office. More specifically, the scene where all the little miniature Spongebobs can’t remember a name so they run around screaming, breaking stuff, and everything’s on fire. Remember that scene? If you do, perfect. If you don’t, stop reading this right now and look it up on YouTube, because let me tell ya, it’ll help. That moment was exactly what was going on in Jon’s head right now. All those microscopic Jonathans were screaming at the top of their subatomic lungs, stampeding through his frontal lobe, and doing nothing but generating one trainwreck of a thought process after another, all of which centered around one thought:  _ Holy fuck I think we’re flirting. _

There were a few possible courses of action here. The first one was the most obvious; abort mission, slam down that No Homo card like a Draw Four in UNO, and step feet away ‘cause he’s not gay. Logically, this was the best possible thing Jonathan Samuel Kent could take, and the one he probably  _ should _ take, because there was absolutely no way in hell he had even a semblance of a shot with Damian. Especially not when the guy was a damned billionaire, and probably straight -- seriously, all the good guys were -- and Jon was a minimum wage working barista. Damian Wayne had perfectly dry-cleaned and irons suits. Jonathan Kent had coffee stained Old Navy jeans. Logically speaking, he should just let the moment pass, finish his shift, and go home to stuff his face with fists full of Life cereal.

The second possibility was much more favorable; indulge thyself, oh aching soul. There was no harm in a coquettish smile, and some offhanded humor. Insert a coy chuckle here, a dismissive “oh you” there. Flirting could be fun. It could be innocent and meaningless, but more importantly, it could feel good. There was no harm in humoring a crush that wasn’t going anywhere between the hours of six am and eight pm. It wasn’t heading anywhere after hours either, but once he was off the clock he could just go home, feeling a touch more confident in himself, and pretend nothing had ever happened to begin with. As said previously; they’d finish their conversation, then Jon would clock out, go home, and cram as much dry cereal into his mouth as possible.

Final option? Oh man. The final option was the most terrifying out of all of them. The Daily Grind was mostly empty -- a quick headcount told him there were only four customers in the establishment, Damian included -- with no one close enough to actually hear the words being exchanged. Terra was all the way on the other side of the employee area, hanging out by the pastries. Jocelyn was doing her general manager things back in her office. No one was paying attention to the two young guys chatting it up by the straw dispensers. On top of that, if Jon hadn’t completely lost track of their conversation, the opportunity had presented itself. It was subtle, but maybe that was better. Chances are it wouldn’t come off as forced. Awkward? Probably. Anxiety inducing? Definitely. But out of left field? No. Most likely not... . Right?

Maybe he was misreading this entire situation. Oh man that was  _ absolutely _ a possibility. There was a damned good chance that Jon would open his dumb mouth and get smacked in the face with instant regret. Everything could go horribly. Best case scenario for option three was a pipe dream. Worst case scenario was a slap in the face. So now Jon was just trying to think just how worth it  _ it _ could be. Who’s judgement should he go to in a situation like this. Certainly not his own. Lois Lane would tell him to trust his instincts, but proceed with caution. Clark Kent would tell him to never act unless his facts were infallible. Neither of those were helping.

It wasn’t until Jon blinked again, looking at the way Damian stood so casually, swiping a hand through gelled back hair, before sparing another quick glance and a smile Jon’s way that the seventeen year old remembered one thing. It was stupid. A piece of advice his brother of all people had given him just that morning:

 

_ Better an “oops” than a “what if”. _

 

“Maybe uh…” Holy crapola he couldn’t believe he was doing this. He sucked his lower lip in, as an attempt at keeping himself from stammering. “Do you think…”

Jon looked up and say Damian quirking an eyebrow up, his head tilted to the side. There was a small, barely amused smile on his face as he waited for whatever question Jon was struggling to get through. 

Boy, oh boy was he struggling. Jon bit the insides of his cheeks. Luckily, the pain was just enough to stun him out of his nerves, if only momentarily. “Do you wanna get coffee?”

Whatever question Damian was expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. The man didn’t quite frown, but his face shifted into a kind of polite bewilderment. Then he looked down at the coffee cup he was currently holding in his hands. “Um…”

Holy shit Kent you’re a fucking idiot. 

“No I mean--” Jon stomped on his own toe. “Get coffee with uh… Maybe we could… I meant like, maybe  _ we _ could get coffee. Somewhere else. Not here. Some other time. Uh… Yeah.” 

Someone put this poor soul out of his misery. 

In his head, Jon was running through a mental list of everything in this café he could kill himself with. Right now it was a tie between drowning himself in the cold brew, and ramming himself in the head with a whipped cream dispenser enough times to cause irreparable brain damage. He was so beyond stupid. Just… moroning. Coffee? They were standing in the flipping coffee shop!  _ That Jon worked in! _ Christ on a cracker,  _ he didn’t even like coffee!  _ Alright. New plan. Open up the bean grinder, stick his head in, and turn on the---

“Sure.”

Wait what?

Jon’s felt like a Looney Tune with how wide his eyes must have gotten, and just how far they felt like they were bulging out of his head. He couldn’t have heard that right. There’s absolutely no way. He just  _ had _ to have heard that wro--

“Coffee could be interesting. If you’re not sick of it of course.” Damian offered a smile. The corners of the man’s eyes were turned up. 

“I-- Right.” Jon nodded quickly. His back suddenly went completely straight. Both hands came up and fumbled at the temple tips of his glasses before he realize how stupid he must look. A quick adjustment of his work cap on his head, and hopefully he played it off smooth enough. 

“Your work schedule is likely harder to work around than mine.” It seemed like Damian didn’t notice any of the weird fidgeting. At the very least, he polite enough not to comment on it or stare. “Is there a day or time you had in mind?”

“Oh um...”  _ Help! He definitely did not think he would make it this far!  _ “What - uh - What are you doing tomorrow?”

The man across the counter made a funny little chortle, looking down at his feet and shaking his head before looking back up at his barista. Thankfully enough, he seemed to at least be finding amusement in this conversation. “Gotham, remember?”

Jon blinked at the city name registered in his head. Kent… You are beyond saving. “Heck. Right. Sorry, I forgot about that.” 

“It’s quite alright.” Damian, ever the gentleman, waved the otherwise horribly embarrassing moment off. “One moment.”

Our wonderful little idiot restrained a groan at his own expense. Instead, he watched as the cute guy he was completely flopping in front of pulled out his cell phone from his pocket. It was held at enough of an angle that Jon was able to catch Damian opening up his calendar app. 

Was it weird to be so nervous right now? That was normal, right? Because Jon felt like a thousand volts of electricity were passing through his body, making his skin tingle, hairs on his arms stand on end, and his heart pound so quickly he could feel it in his toes and teeth. He wasn’t sure if he was bouncing with excitement, trembling with anxiety, or just standing still at the rest of the world moved by, but he really hoped he didn’t come off as any more foolish than he already had.

“I don’t have to be in Gotham until tomorrow afternoon at the latest.” Damian finally spoke again after what was either a nanosecond or an eternity. “Perhaps morning coffee would be possible?” There was just the slightest hint of apprehension in Damian’s eyes when he glanced up from his phone.

“Morningsoundsgreat.” Too eager Jonno. Reign it back in a bit. He coughed into his fist once. His face felt so hot. When had he started blushing? Oh god he was such an ugly blusher. “I mean. The morning works for me. If you’re sure it works for you.”

Apparently something about Jon’s reaction was either amusing or  _ right _ , because it brought a smile to Damian’s lips. “I wouldn’t suggest it if it wasn’t.”

“Cool uh--” 

The sound of the door chime broke right into whatever Jon was about to say next. He looked over to the café entrance, hoping to god it was just one single customer. His heart sank in his chest when it was four. Dammit. He’d have to help out with that. But he and Damian hadn’t been able to hash out the details yet! Think, boy. Come on. Come up with  _ something _ . In a moment of what was probably the quickest thinking of his life, Jon grabbed one of the cardboard hot cup sleeves from the dispenser on the counter, and the sharpie from his pocket.

_ Jon 302 - 787 - XXXX _

He scrawled his cell number out on the sleeve, then slid it across the counter to Damian. “I’ve got to run and take care of these people, but just in case, this is my number.”

Ok. Apparently he’d done something  _ really _ right, because Damian’s smile only grew. The older boy took the digits and looked over them, as if to make sure he could read all of the numbers, then nodded. He looked up at Jon and gave him a wink. “I’ll text you.”

The smile must have been contagious, because Jon now had welt felt like the stupidest grin in the world on his face. “Can’t wait.” 

“Jon! Can you take the register?”

Dammit Terra.

“Yeah, one sec!” He called over to his co worker. He licked over his lips, then looked back at Damian. “I’ll uh…”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jon.” Damian waved goodbye with the cardboard sleeve in one hand, his coffee in the other, as he took a few backwards steps, then ultimately walked out of the coffee shop. 

Jon watched in a weird sort of daze before he remembered that he actually had a job to do. The teen stepped over to the register and started taking orders, but honest to God, he wasn’t even registering the faces of the customers. Everything seemed to move by like he was half zoned out. Instead, his mind was replaying a hastily pieced together replay of the conversation he’d just had.

That conversation…

_ Those _ conversations…

They just…

He just…

_ Holy fuck. _


	11. The Problem with Unsweet Tea

_“Ok now show me the other one again?”_

An exasperated groan left Jon as he went back to the pile of clothes that had built up on his bed, digging through the shirts and pulling out a pink to white ombre tee. He walked back over to his desk, where his laptop was set up with Skype open. On the other side of the video call was none other than the queen of strawberry blond curls.

That’s right folks. Kathy Branden, Miss Hamilton County two years in a row herself, was on the other side of this forty six minute video chat, sitting on the couch in her living room wearing a size XL Monster Truck rally shirt she definitely stole from her grandfather back in middle school, and, as far as Jon could tell, no pants. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail using one of those childish elastic bands with the little plastic balls on either end. A seafoam green cream was smeared under her eyes, covering up the dark circles that were perpetually there as a result of getting up at five most mornings to tend to cattle. She must have put her laptop down on the couch cushion next to her because the screen was tilted up so she had to look down at it, all while balancing a down of cereal on her knee.

“This one?” Jon held the shirt up over his chest so Kathy could get an idea of what it would look like on him.

The girl hummed, squinting at the shirt as she shoveled more KIX into her mouth. The milk dripping from the spoon was brown from the sheer amount of Hershey's chocolate syrup Jon just _knew_ the girl added. Kathy covered her mouth with her hand as she chewed. _“Nah. Pink’s a good color on you, but it might be too much.”_

“Dammit. You right.” He balled the shirt up before shooting it like a basketball towards his bed. It missed. Jon stood over his bed again, wearing nothing but his boxers, looking down at the various items of clothing he had laid out as if each one had personally offended him. “This is a disaster.”

 _“Reign it on in here, cowboy. Let’s think this over again.”_ Kathy’s voice came through his computer’s speakers.

“What’s there to think over?” The teenaged boy groaned, picking up a mint button down, and immediately tossing it back down. “My whole closet is full of _garbage_.”

 _“Hey now. I resent that. I helped you pick out half your closet.”_ There was the sound of slurping as Kathy finished up her cereal and drank all of the milk still in the bowl. When she was finished, she set the bowl down on the floor. With her breakfast out of the way, Kathy pulled her laptop into her lap so there was no more awkward camera angle, though she made a weird face so se could check her teeth out in the corner of her own screen; of course, this meant Jon got an absolutely _lovely_ look at his best friends dental hygiene. _“Come on, bae. Let’s not give up yet.”_

“Nope. I think it’s about time we give up.” Clearly that was the only possible option. If he couldn’t find anything to wear, then he’d just have to not leave his house all day.

 _“Oh no you don’t.”_ Kathy’s voice rang loud and clear through the video chat. _“We’re going to find you a cute ass outfit, and you’re going to wear it. I’m not letting you missing this date cause you’re a damned drama queen and that’s that.”_

The noise that left the bemoaning seventeen year old was somewhere between a whine and a groan, building in the back of his throat and somehow sounding like a constipated frog. He pulled out his desk chair and sat down, grabbing his cell phone off his computer keyboard and unlocking it so he could look back at the text conversation he still couldn’t believe existed there.

* * *

 

 **Damian  
** Good afternoon, Jon. This is Damian Wayne. I am sending you this message to confirm that this is, in fact, the correct number to reach you, as well as clarify our plans for tomorrow morning. Should the offer still stand of course. Please respond to this message when you are able.

Hey! Yeah this is me.  
How’s it going?

 **Damian  
** I am doing well. I presume that you are finish with work now? If so, then I do hope it resolved with relative ease.

It went pretty well.  
Got off of work about an hour after you left.

 **Damian  
** That’s quite a long work day for you. I’m sure you appreciate being to rest for the weekend now. Now then, if possible, are you available to discuss plans for tomorrow morning?

Totally! Morning right?

 **Damian  
** Yes. The morning would be preferable.

Yeah definitely.  
Can’t have you running late.

 **Damian  
** That is greatly appreciated. I hoped to depart for Gotham by twelve o'clock noon. Is there a time beforehand that works for you?

10ish maybe?

 **Damian  
** I apologize for taking so long to respond. I was double checking my schedule. Yes. Ten would work for me.

Sounds great! :D

 **Damian  
** Perfect. I know we agreed upon coffee, however I’m assuming you wouldn’t want to go to the same place you work. Correct?

Yeah no. Rather not do that.  
Also if were meeting at 10, wanna go somewhere we can get a bit to eat too?  
*bite

 **Damian  
** I think a “bite” to eat sounds lovely. I supposed that shifts the plan to breakfast rather than coffee?

Guess so!

 **Damian  
** Would you mind if I select a venue? There’s a little bistro I know that has an enjoyable brunch menu.

Sure! Where ever you want works for me.

 **Damian  
** Shall I send you the address then?

Yeah. Thanks.

 **Damian  
**_La Ferme_  
_7101 Brookeside Road_  
_Metropolis, DW_  
I’ll see you tomorrow then?

Yep! See you then!

* * *

 

Jon read over the message chain again and again, remembering the sheer amount of stress that had gone into every single one, as well as the absolutely panicked snapchats with Kath between each one. An olympic level of strategy was used to plan out exactly how long to wait between receiving the message, and scrambling to type out a reply. Of course, he made sure each one was approved by his best friend before sending them.

Somehow, at the end of the day, he hadn’t managed to completely fuck everything over. Was there an Oscar ceremony worth of daydream clips projecting in the back of his mind of every single way he would probably mess this up? You best your sweet ass there was. Most of which ended in him having to move across the country and live out the rest of his days as a goat farmer.

 _“Alright there Pippi Longstocking. Time to herd yourself back in from wherever the hell your mind sheep wandered off to”_ Kathy snapped into her laptop camera to get Jon’s attention again. _“Next shirt. Come on.”_

“I just feel like I’m trying too hard.” Jon pulled one of his many button down shirts, a pale yellow broadcloth with long sleeves, out from under the discard pile. He didn’t even fasten the first button before ripping the garment off.

_“Oh you’re definitely trying to hard.”_

“Wow. Thanks for that.”

 _“Anything for you, boo.”_ When Jon turned to give the stink eye, he was met with Kathy beating him to it. She had her eyes crossed, her thumb pushing her nose up. She leaned in so Jon could see the crusty, dried snot caking the inside of her nostrils. Apparently, Kathy just thought she was the next Katherine Ryan, and was just oh-so hilarious, because the teenage girl snorted in amusement of herself. The sound of her own snort only made her laugh harder, thus increasing the number of snorts, until she wound up in a terrible cycle, and ultimately let the whole thing fall apart.

“Ok. Let’s narrow it down a little more.” Jon riffled through the monstrosity that was the jumble of clothes. “What about color pallet? I look best in blues, right?”

 _“Pick something brighter.”_ Kathy’s voice rang out through the speakers. _“It’s summer, and you have dark hair, so you need something to balance that out.”_

“Red’s then?” The seen sorted through the garments, pulling out everything blue and starting to fold it up so he could put it away again.

_“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeh.”_

“Real helpful there.”

 _“Think patterns.”_ Kathy hummed, the sound of her fingernails tapping against the plastic casing of her laptop was just a half-second delayed through the speakers. _“Just wear your good flannel.”_

“I am _not_ wearing a _flannel_ to my first maybe date!” The seventeen year old whirled around, looking at his friend in outrage. Really. How dare she. “What’s wrong with you?”

 _“I said your_ good _flannel!”_

“No!” Jon picked up a bundle of socks from his floor and threw it at his computer screen, knocking the screen back so the angle was completely messed up, and the colors looked inverted. “It’s early summer, and we’re still in the AM here! Flannel is a late-afternoon-in-the-fall look!”

_“Well gee, how the hell was I supposed to--”_

“I can not _believe_ you would even _suggest_ that I wear _flannel_ in July!”

_“Jon.”_

“Like, sure. I wear flannel year round”

_“Jonny.”_

“But I would _never_ wear a flannel when I’m trying to make a good impression on someone, and I’d never suggest that you wear something like that too. Holy hillbilly! I thought you were supposed to be helping me he--”

 _“For fucks sake I get it!”_ Had Jon been completely ranting about the social acceptability of heavy, plaid printed fabrics? Totally. He probably would have kept going too -- honestly? There was a very good chance that he read way too many of his mother’s fashion magazines. Maybe he should just stop watching Project Runway… That, or this was a sign that he should think about a career in fashion. Of course, he barely knew how to sew, let alone attempt to design a whole ass Look TM from scratch, but he was seventeen. He had all the time in the world to learn -- but Kathy screaming at him through the computer pulled him out of it. _“Boy. You’re nervous, and I get it. But calm down. You cute as shit, and you’d look hot even if you wore trash bags and duct tape.”_

Jon let out a sigh, forcing his shoulders to relax. He pulled his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’d seen his father do all too many times. Oh man. He really was stressed. The boy padded across the room and fixed the position of his computer screen. “You’re right. Shit. Sorry for freaking.”

 _“You good, boo.”_ Kathy smiled at him. She started playing with her hair, pulling it out of it’s pony tail and instead starting to twist the locks into a braid. _“You’ve gone through this with me plenty of times. It’s what friends are for.”_

Jon let out a slight chuckle. “So patterns?”

 _“Light colors.”_ Kathy nodded, undoing the braid and redoing it. _“What about your boat shirt?”_

The seventeen year old paused, looking over to the reject pile. “I tried that one in the beginning, remember?”

 _“Try it again for me.”_ The blond tied the elastic band around the tips of her hair, completely ignoring the doubtful look on her friend’s face. _“Come on. Humor me.”_

Well… He didn’t exactly have any better ideas. Jon went back to the mound of clothing that had built up of all the shirts he’d previously decided betrayed him. From the bottom of it, he pulled out a pale pink, short sleeved button down shirt, littered with centimeter big, navy blue sail boats -- some of our more detail oriented readers might recognize this as the coveted shirt Jon didn’t wear because it was too flamboyant -- and turned it over in his hands. He quickly pulled it on, letting it hang unbuttoned over his body before turning around so Kathy could see him.

The girl in question looked him over. _“Button it up.”_

Jon followed the instruction, starting from the bottom, making sure the last two buttons were lined up properly, and making his way up to the collar. He fastened every single button, including the top one, feeling the Downy-soft material rub against the skin of his neck. He looked down at his torso, smoothing out a few small wrinkles with his hands. “Well?”

Kathy hummed for a second. _“Undo the top button and roll the sleeves.”_

“You sure?” Of course, he did as he was told anyways, starting with his sleeves. He creased the edge of each sleeve over the dotted thread line at the brim, before folding it once more over. There was the obligatory mirror inspection to make sure they were even, before Jon fidgeted with the highest button. “My neck’s kinda wide. I feel like I usually look better with the top done.”

 _“You look good, but you look stiff.”_ Kathy hummed. She took in Jon’s appearance. _“Black pants.”_

“What?” Jon stalled for a moment as the words registered. “Oh. Yeah.” He turned around, heading over to his dresser and digging through the third drawer to find the pair of clearance skinny cut Old Navy pants. They’d been fifteen dollar’s before going on sale, and free once he’d used that gift card his grandparents had given him. Jon jammed his legs into them and hiked them high above his waist, shimmying his hips until he was able to actually pull them shut. Oof. He was gaining weight. “Tucked, or untucked?”

 _“Gimme a twirl.”_ Kathy spun one finger in the air.

Jon stepped in close, so his full body could be seen in the view of his computer’s video camera. There was the slight kicking of some laundry that was either dirty or not -- at this point he had absolutely no idea -- before there was a large enough clearing on the floor. Jon crossed his ankles, right over the left, pushing off with one foot before pivoting, spinning around on the ball of his left foot. He wobbled through two and three quarters rotations before landing back on both feet. His affinity for the theatrics forced Jon to give a cute little curtsy, miming holding the pleats of a skirt up as he did. “Well? What do you think?”

 _“Keep it untucked.”_ Kathy gave an okay sight with her hand, signalling her approval.  

“Oh my god.” Jon turned to look himself over in the mirror again. “Did we actually do it?”

_“I think so. Just don’t ruin it with a cap or something.”_

“I was thinking beanie actually.” The boy backtracked to his dresser once more, opening up his underwear drawer, pulling out a fresh pair of purple paisley socks and a charcoal gray knitted beanie. The hat was inside out, so he quickly turned it right side in, being careful of the two little buttons he’d pinned next to each other. Closest to the brim was a metal ghost pin with two thumbs down and a little speech bubble that said ‘boo’. It was a stupid little thing that had come in the cheap plastic capsule from one of those machines you put a quarter in at the grocery store, but Jon was a sucker for a bad pun. The second, just slightly above and to the left of the unimpressed ghosty friend, was one of your average circle buttons, about the size of a nickel, with the West-Reeve High School mascot on it. Jon situated the hat on his head, so that it slouched on the back of his head, the pins situated over his left temple. He used his fingers to fluff up his bangs some. “There. Voila. How do I look?”

_“If you were straight, I’d introduce you to my very Christian grandmother.”_

“You don’t have a grandmother.” Jon quirked an eyebrow up. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed the framed on the corner of his shirt, before sliding them back on. Oh man. Did he really let his lenses get that dirty? No wonder none of his clothes looked right. He’d been looking through dust!

_“I would find a grandmother just to introduce you to her.”_

“I fuckin love you.” Jon snorted. He sat back on the edge of his bed and pulled his socks on.

 _“So are you good?”_ Kathy readjusted on her couch, making the image of her shake around until finally stabilizing at a new angle. _“Need anything else?”_

“A punch in the face?”

There was a loud cackle of a laugh on the other end of the Skype call. _“No can-do on that one, bae. Can’t risk giving you a shiner.”_

“Ugh. Fine.” Jon groaned out. “Then uh… Fuck I think I’m ready to go.”

_“Text me when you get there.”_

“Totally.” He started moving around his room again, tracking down everything he would need. Wallet: check. Phone: fully charged and ready to go. Power bar to eat in the bathroom just in case the food sucks ass: white fudge raspberry.

_“Text me an SOS if you need me to call you and fake an emergency.”_

“Don’t think I’ll need that, but will do.” Jon patted over his pockets, running through a mental checklist. His keys were on the hook by the door… So he probably had everything he needed… Probably…. Yeah, no. He definitely had everything.

_“And you’re gonna give me all the juicy details later tonight?”_

“Gurl, you know damned fucking well I’m talking your ear off after this.” The anxiety ridden teen slid into his desk chair, actually sitting down and talking screen-face to screen-face with his best friend. “I’ll probably have to text ya ‘cause Mom and I are gonna be doin somethin er other together.”

 _“Totes my goats.”_ Kathy grinned, flashing Jon a wide grin and a thumbs up. _“You’re gonna be perfect, my dude.”_

“I’m gonna vomit.”

_“Nope. Not allowed.”_

“Damn. Foiled.” Jon took a deep breath. He looked at the little clock in the bottom corner of his computer screen; just a hair past nine o’clock. According to Google Maps, if Jon wanted to be fifteen minutes early to being fifteen minutes early, then he’d need to leave in a few minutes. Heck. Wow. Ok. This was gonna be a thing that we was actually doing. “I gotta go.”

 _“You got this.”_ Kathy followed up the words of encouragement by rapid firing a bunch of heart emojis into the text box.

“Thanks, bae.” The teen let out a breath. “Aight. I gotta run. Wish me luck!”

_“Good luck!”_

Jon shut his laptop once the call had ended. He sat there, leaning back in his desk chair with his head tipped back over it.

Alright. Now to just leave his room….

Alright. Now to just… Leave his room…..

Alright Just leave the room….

Just leave the room...

Leave the room….

Leave the _fucking_ room…

_For the love of all that is holy get your bitch ass up and out of your fucking room or so help yourself you’re just gonna have to kick your own ass._

Jon took a deep breath before pushing himself up and out of his desk chair. He made the executive decision to not check himself out in the mirror again. If he did then he’d just want to change outfits again. He’d gotten the Kathy Branden seal on approval, so he should be golden. Unless…. _Nope_. Not gonna check the mirror.

After another TSA style pat down, Jon had quintuply checked to make sure he had everything he could possibly need in his pockets. Then, he left his room. He walked right on out of there as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

His mother was sitting in her favorite armchair in the living room, a wide seat upholstered in white chenille fabric that was just dirty enough to look like it should have been gray. It was a chair that everyone knew the story to, because for some reason or another, his mother just never stopped talking about it. One of those hand-me-down antique pieces that had been in the family for years, and was constantly being reupholstered. Jon remember it when it was green damask. Conner remembered it when it was black linen with little golden flecks. His dad remembered it in mother’s first apartment when it was fudge chenille. Yet for some reason, his mother never stopped talking about when the chair belonged to _her_ father -- “It was his favorite chair, Jon. I used to sit in his lap while he read the morning paper” -- and was a light pink chintz. There was a matching ottoman that tended to travel around the apartment. The two pieces of furniture were a set, and yet for some reason, it never quite followed the same upholstery trends. This analogous ottoman had somehow skipped the green chenille and black linen, and instead was baby blue in the old nursery back when they lived in Hamilton, and now leopard print. It was the only bit of furniture in the whole living room that didn’t match the other pieces, and yet it was the only piece that was part of a set.

So there she was, Lois Lane, sitting in her favorite white armchair that used to be green, that used to be black and gold, that used to be brown, that used to be pink, with her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, resting on an ottoman that started as pink, then was brown, then baby blue and now was leopard print. She had a book she bought two weeks ago at a used book store and kept putting off reading open in her lap -- I guess she finally decided to read it -- and a mug of coffee in her hands. “You’re up early.” She didn’t even look up from her book.

“Yeah.” Jon crossed the room to grab his black sneakers from the shoe rack by the front door. He walked back into the living room, leaning against the arm of the couch for support as he pulled them on. “I’m heading out for a bit.”

“Last minute plans?” Lois smiled and took a sip of her coffee. She peaked up through the frames of her glasses, which had just slightly slipped down the bridge of her nose. Seeing that made Jon instantly adjust his own frames, pushing them up into his nasion.

“Pretty much.” He shrugged before jamming his first foot into a shoe, pulling at the heel so he could get it on without untying the laces. “We figured out the details late last night. Sorry I didn't tell you sooner.”

“Oh? Who’s we?”

What Jon should have said was something along the lines of ‘oh, you know, I met this guy through work and we’re gonna hang out’. The problem is, that’s exactly what Jon _didn’t_ say. With absolutely nothing prompting it, and no hesitation whatsoever, Jon said something completely different. “Friends from school. You know, Georgia, Nick, Price, and the rest of the squad.”

“Haven’t heard those names in a while.” Lois hummed as she folded the top corner of the page she was currently working on, and closed her book. “All I’ve heard from you has been work work work since the summer started.”

“We’ve all been busy.” He didn't look up. Instead, the teenager tried to force his other foot into the other shoe, only find he needed to untie it anyways. “But Georgia and I both got our first paycheck this week, and Afreen’s finally back from some family trip.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.” His mother just smiled at him before checking her phone, either to look for notifications, or just to see the time. “I’m just happy you’re actually having some fun this summer.”

“Hey. I like working.”

“I know you do.” There was a pause in the conversation as Jon tapped his toes together -- there’s no place like home -- and Lois had that ‘give me a minute, I’m thinking’ face. “How are you getting there? Is someone picking you up? Do you need a ride?”

 _Do I need my mom to give me a ride to a date I just completely lied to her about? Nah. I think I’m good._ Jon shook his head before checking the time on his phone. “I texted Dad this morning and he said I could take his car since he took yours to Gotham.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t plan on going anywhere anyways.” Lois leaned back into her arm chair, lifting her legs off the ottoman to stretch them before putting them back down.

“I’ll be back sometime around noon.” Jon smiled at his mother, getting up and walking across the living room to give her a kiss on the top of the head. “Twelve thirty at the absolute latest.”

“Alright, mister. Now go have fun.” The award winning journalist patted her son’s cheek gently, before turning her attention back to her book. She opened it up, flipping to the page she’d saved. “Which one was Nick again?”

“The loud one.”

“Right. The loud one.” Lois nodded. “Good kid.”

Jon just laughed, mostly to himself, before heading back over to the front door. He grabbed his house keys and the spare key to his Dad’s car off the hooks on the wall and shoved them into his pocket. “I’ll see you later.”

“Be safe!”

* * *

 

Driving in a city was one of the worst experiences humanly possible; right behind waiting in line at the DMV and getting called up to the stage for literally any kind of performance. The problem with driving in the city, was that everyone else just sucked at it. No one seemed to know where they were going, what the speed limit was, or how to use _their God damned turn signal!_ Life was so much easier when there was only one paved road, with cows on one side and corn on the other. Alas, Jon actually had somewhere to be. If he hadn’t then he really wouldn’t be caught dead driving right now.

If his cellphone’s GPS was to be trusted, then Jon somehow managed to snag a parking space just two blocks away from the address Damian had texted him. He checked that he had to right address for the umpteenth time, and every time it said he was only a three minute walk away. Perfect. Only dilemma now? Jon was twenty four minutes early, which brought up the question, how early was too early to arrive for a first ‘maybe-not-a-date-but-I-hope-it-is’? Was it dumb to google it?

Fuck it. He was googling it.

“How… early… is too early… to show up, for, date.” Jon typed the question out into the his phone. Now, maybe you’ve used the Google Machine before. You know. That itsy bitsy little search engine that has 3.5 billion searches per day on average. Well, in case your name is Patrick Star, and you live under a literal rock, normally when you ask the Googz a question, it spits out a bunch of websites that _should_ contain the answer to whatever the hell your pretty little heart desires. Usually at least two Yahoo pages and one Reddit thread show up within the first five results. Well. In case you’re wondering. If you copy and paste ‘How early is too early to show up for date” into your search bar… _not a singled damned result actually answers your flipping question._ Do it. I dare you. The first result is what to do _if_ you show up before your date; useful, but not what I asked. The next three results are what to do when you inevitably show up early and are waiting for your date to arrive. Followed by When is it OK to be late?, courtesy of Esquire. All of which, do not answer Jon’s question in the slightest.

So, well loved members of the internet, I double dog dare you to find _something_ that says how early is too early to show up for a date. Your boy Jon needs it.

Like and subscribe, and put _your_ search results in the comments section below!

After wasting six minutes trying to answer his question, Jon decided he’d waited long enough, and might as well go for it. He opened up the glove box to find a ziplock bag full of coins, and pulled out two dollars in quarters. When he got out of the car, avoiding getting hit by oncoming traffic, and making sure it was most certainly locked behind him, Jon went over and slid the coins one by one into the rusted parking meter. Two hours. That should be plenty.

Ok GPS says turn left… Wait… Maybe that’s supposed to be right. Jon kept his eyes on the little blue dot on his phone screen indicating his position on the map as he started walking. The relief that hit him when he actually _was_ walking along the dotted line instead of away from it was instant. He continued down that road for two blocks, until he reached that little checkered flag. Although, even without the GSP telling him “his destination was on the right”  he would have easily been able to pick the place out.

Right smack in between a tavern and an upscale dry cleaners was a small section of outdoor seating, three sets of tables for two and one table for four. Classic wooden square tables with heavy black iron stands, and red and white rattan chairs were mostly empty, save the table for four, and both clashed and matched the red awning over a set of pale yellow barn doors with mint green trims. The barn doors were both permanently rolled open to reveal floor to ceiling windows, so anyone could see into the little restaurant.

What had given Jon’s destination away to him? It wasn’t just hint from his GPS, or that _La Ferme_ was scrawled across the hanging flap of the awning in gold. It wasn’t even the large copper rooster that had long since oxidized above the actual entrance. No. The thing Jon noticed first was parked right outside the café: A 1968 Pontiac Firebird.

Jon immediately felt his stomach try and force its way up his esophagus. His heart started beating louder and faster than a mariachi band on the subway. Was it too late to turn the fuck around and run away with his tail between his legs?

Against his stomach’s better judgment, Jon walked up to the antique door to the left of the barn doors, rubbing the sweat off his palm before opening it up and stepping inside. He was immediately met with every sound and smell you’d expect from a little café -- no wait. This was supposed to be a ‘bistro’ -- all while trying to take in the inside of the space.

The inside of the restaurant was thin, but it went far back. Along the far right wall was a long wooden bar with faded polish, the front of which was decorated in large, robins egg blue antique tiles. The wall behind the bar was featured with one foot squares of mirrors so that the entire wall was covered. Surrounding the counter were rattan bar stools, matching the chairs outside, except in different colors, black, red, or blue, arranged in an alternating pattern, save for one or two that must have accidentally ended up swapped. This was what Jon’s eyes were first drawn to. Second, was the what was one of the most interesting dining arrangements he’d ever seen.

Three round columns, all weathered to look old and covered in fake vines of flowers, separated the bar area from the regular diners. The tables were all the same; round metal frames with light tops were arranged neatly around a black and white tile floor. It was the chairs that were… different. Rather than buying a surplus of matching chairs for the whole restaurant, instead every seat was different. Different styles, different bright colors, different fabrics, but all looking like a quirky chair that Joanna Gaines would stick in a corner of a room to add a ‘splash of color’ on Fixer Upper. Jon’s first through was that the owner must have had a fun time running around to ever antique store in Metropolis to find all of these.

“Can I help you, sir?” A man, likely the host, dressed in a uniform of black slacks, and navy blue dress shirt, approached Jon at the door.

“Oh I’m um… I’m meeting someone here.” Jon swallowed. His eyes drifted over the various patrons of the restaurant, scanning each and every person. He stopped half way. Sitting towards the back, in a table just off the wall, was Damian. “I um… I see him.” Jon offered the host a polite smile, tipping his head down slightly as he moved out of the entrance way, towards his… Oh dear god he never actually figured out if this was a date or not.

Every lead step Jon took brought him closer, but it also meant he had that time to try and take in as much of Damian’s appearance as possible before he’d end up making a complete ass of himself. So here it goes:

Damian Wayne was reclined in an turkish blue, round backed chair with wooden armrests. A black button down shirt blessed the man’s torso, with the top two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. From this distance, Jon was just barely able to see the mink pants and black oxfords he wore. Unlike every single other time Jon had seen him, Damian’s hair wasn’t gelled today. Instead it looked like it had simply been combed, sticking up almost playfully and slanting to the right. One hand held open a leather bound book, his forearm rested along the arm of his chair, while the other was lifted so that a finger was hooked around some golden chain around the man’s neck.

Oh no _he’s hot!_

Jon swallowed his nerves, before stepping up to the table. He forced as casual of a smile as possible onto his face. “Damian? Hey.”

Damian looked from his book upon hearing his name and straightened up. The man looked stiff, up until he saw that it was Jon that had called for him. He tucked his finger in between the pages of his book, standing up from his seat as the younger teen approached the table. “Jon. Good morning.”

“Mornin’.” Ok. This time the smile on Jon’s face was a lot more genuine.

“Please, sit down.” Damian gestured to the other chair across the table from him.

“Nah, I’m just gonna stand all day.” Alright. First joke made. There is now at least a five percent chance we _won’t_ completely fuck this up. Jon pulled out his chair; a mustard yellow atrocity with no arms, but very well cushioned nonetheless.

“I should hope not.” Damian took his own seat once more, then picked up a braided bookmark from the table top and placed it inside his book, before closing it and tucking the novel just under his thigh so it would stay in place. “I hope you found the place without trouble.”

“It was really easily actually.” He fidgeted with the material on his chair -- for such a disgusting color, it had a wonderful texture -- while he was trying to figure just what position he wanted to be sitting down in. “I left early because I thought it would be harder to get here. I don’t come to this part of town a whole lot.”

“Really?” Damian quirked an eyebrow. He crossed his legs, right over left, and folded his hands together to rest on his knee. “I figured it was so close to you, that maybe the area would be more familiar to you.”

“This is more of a college neighborhood.” Keep your back straight, but not too straight. Shoulders back, but don’t look stiff. “MCU is right around the corner and all.”

“MCU…” The older man hummed to himself for a moment. “That would be Metropolis City University?”

“Go Bulldogs.” Hands in your lap. Hands in your lap. Hands in your lap. “But yeah uh, I normally stick to New Troy, or Centennial Park.”

Damian nodded, opening his mouth to say something before a waitress approached them depositing two brunch menus on the table.

“Hello, and welcome to _La Ferme_.” She had a slight accent. French maybe? It would fit with the theme of the place. “Can I start either of you off with something to drink?”

“A cappuccino, please.” Huh. Damian wasn’t getting a latte? Interesting.

“Oh uh.” There was a split second where every single liquid Jon knew of completely vacated his brain. For some reason, the first thing that came to mind was Windex, but we’re just gonna shoot that dangerous and mildly concerning thought in the foot and pretend it didn’t happen. “Iced tea, please.”

“That’s going to be unsweetened. Would you like me to bring you sugar?”

“Yes please.” A rant that we most certainly will go into at a later date is the utter discrimination between sweet tea and unsweetened cups of sadness, and the complete inability to find the good stuff anywhere north of Maryland. But for once in the seventeen years of Jonathan’s life, sweet tea was not the most important thing.

The waitress soon left, and Jon finally lifted his hands from where he might as well have stapled them to his thighs to grab at the corners of his menu, picking slightly at the old plastic casing. It wasn’t until both him and Damian were completely silent, looking over their menus, that the utter awkwardness of this situation smacked Jon in the face once more. The teen started wracking his brain through the list of generic conversation starters Kathy had given him late last night, but once again, he was drawing a blank. Fucking hell. Dates were the worst.

“So you’ve lived in Metropolis a long time?” Thank sweet Mary, mother of God, Damian broke the ice again. The fellow didn’t even look up from his menu as he looked it over.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah.” Jon scooted back into his seat slightly when some random waiter placed two glasses of water on their table, muttering a quick ‘thank you’ as the waiter left. “Been here since I was ten.”

“Really? I find that curious.” Damian flipped his menu over, glancing at the back, only to turn it back over almost instantly.

“Why’s that?” Jon ducked behind his menu, but kept his just low enough that he could glance up every now and then to see Damian’s face.

“Considering who your parents are,” Damian placed his menu flat on the table, “I would have assumed you grew up here.”

Ah. That made sense. “I grew up in Hamilton county. It’s um… about two hours out from the city? You know, with traffic and all. So I’ve always lived close at least. Well…Delaware’s pretty small. So nothing’s exactly _far_.” Jon peeked up from his menu and made eye contact with Damian, before doing that dumb thing you do with strangers where you look away and pretend you were never staring to begin with. Maybe he should actually try and figure out what he wanted… No, wait. Continuing the conversation was more important. Let’s try and figure out a way to hit two birds with one stone. “You’ve eaten here before, right? Any recommendations?”

“I normally have one of their omelettes, however I do occasionally venture into the salads.” Of course, the second Damian said that, Jon’s eyes immediately darted over to the omelets. He hadn’t actually registered that section was even there, and it only made his decision more complicated. “Admittedly, I’ve never eaten the other breakfast foods here.”

“So you, the guy I’m constantly serving cups full of nothing but caramel syrup, has never had the caramel french toast?” Jon couldn’t help but flash Damian a look of utter disbelief. Seriously. He didn’t give this boy a bunch of free caramel pumps on a daily basis, just to be told the man didn’t actually like caramel.

“I haven’t, actually.” Damian looked over the menu as if he were second guessing his choices. “As much as I like the taste, I’m not a fan of it sticking to my teeth and hands.”

“Wild.” Jon snorted. Maybe he should get one of the sandwiches. Hard to go wrong with egg salad on toast. “It’s like I don’t even know you.”

“Isn’t that the point of us meeting like this? To get to know one another?”

Jon didn’t know whether his primary emotion right now was anxiety or relief at hearing those words, but it somehow came together in an odd mixture that made his throat go dry. He reached out for his glass of water, taking a quick sip from the brim, sucking one of the ice cubes into his mouth and chewing on it to calm his nerves. “Yeah. Exactly.”

There was a slight pull at the corner’s of Damian’s mouth, almost as if he were trying to keep himself from smiling. Huh. Weird. “So then. You’re from a place called Hamilton, and now live in the biggest city in the United States?”

“Uh huh.” He nodded. His eyes scanned over the menu one more time, almost settled on that egg salad sandwich, before his eyes landed on a country boy’s weakness; shrimp and grits. Jiminy Cricket, he needed it in his body. Star struck -- rather, shrimp struck -- eyes glanced over at the price. Nineteen dollars. Oof. Big Oof. Well… This was a special occasion… Plus, he _had_ just gotten paid yesterday… Welp. May not be October thirteenth, but Treat Yo’ Self day was just gonna have to come early. “It’s was a total shock too. Hamilton’s complete farm country.”

“So you’re a farm boy.” The smile Damian was apparently trying to hide crept its way up into his eyes. “I wondered about that little twang in your voice.”

“I have a twang?” Something about that just made Jon giggle. He put his menu down on the table. It was no secret to him whatsoever. He’d grown up on country music and hay bale rides, after all. But he thought he spoke pretty normally, just a few “y’all”s here and there, though wasn’t that just gay culture by now?

“It’s slight.” Damian nodded. “I hear it more when you’re relaxed.”

Called the fuck out. Quick! Somehow make a recovery! “I guess it probably comes out more when I’m with friends and family. I don’t really notice how I talk too much cause it’s just how my dad talks.”

“That’s understandable.”

Just that moment, their waitress returned, and for some reason Jon had completely forgotten they’d ordered drinks. “Here you both go.” The girl place an iced tea in front of Jon, with a small box of sugar packets next to it, then placed a large red mug, filled to the brim, in front of Damian. She then tucked her little servers tray under her arm, and pulled a notepad and pen from her pocket. “Have we decided what we’re gonna eat today?”

Why do servers do that? Say “we”? You aren’t going to be eating with us. You aren’t paying for this food. This is a private moment! The “we” is just me and this cute guy who’s most certainly out of my league. You are not included in this “we”. So stop... Please.... Thank you for your service I know you don’t get paid enough here’s a twenty percent tip.

Jon instinctively waited for someone else to place their order first -- usually Mom would always go first -- but when he looked up, both the waitress _and_ Damian were looking at him expectantly. “Oh. Um.” He looked back at his menu, completely forgetting what the heck it was that he’d decided on. “I’ll have the shrimp and grits, please.”

Apparently he’d made a decent choice, because Damian seemed to almost nod his approval as their server wrote Jon’s order down. The waitress then turned to the other member of this little two person party. “The spinach, feta, and cremini mushrooms omelette.” He looked from his menu, then to Jon. The man’s mouth twisted and eyes narrowed ever so slightly, clearly thinking something over in his head. “How hungry are you?”

“Me?” Duh! Who the fuck else would he be talking to? “Decently hungry.”

Damian nodded. He turned back to the waitress, handing her his menu. “The camembert avocado toast and white bean hummus as appetizers to split.”

Wait. To split?

“Absolutely.” The waitress only seemed to grin wide, making the last notes in her pad before swiping both of the menus from the table and finally leaving the boys alone once more.

“You’ll have to help me with the appetizers.” Damian wrapped his fingers around his cappuccino, sighing at the warmth. “I enjoy both, but I’d have a hard time finishing one with a full meal, let alone two.”

“Totally fair.” While the smile on Jon’s face was an attempt to be calm, in his head to was trying to calculate exactly how much that was about to add up to at the end of all this. He’d already ordered big with his meal, but splitting two starters on top of that... You know what? Nope. He’s not going to think about it. Treat Yo’ Self.

“Alright then.” Jon pulled his iced tea close to him and picked out four sugar packets from the little cup given to him -- those _Sugar In The Raw_ brown sugar packets that for some reason feel like they should be healthier than regular sugar purely because it comes in cardboard. You know. Like how cardboard looking bread is healthier than white bread -- and ripped open the first one, pouring it into his drink. “So I told you my oh so not-at-all exciting origin story. So where are you from? Gotham?”

“Saudi Arabia.” The man took a sip from his coffee.

Jon just blinked, not paying attention to the bit of sugar that spilled onto the table. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.” Damian nodded, placing his mug back down on the table, his back straightening slightly. “I was born in Al Kahrj, which is just outside of Riyadh, the capital city.”

“That’s--” Jon couldn’t help but marvel at this new information. It explained that natural olive skin tone and why his hair was so naturally dark. Sure, Jon’s hair was dark too, just a half step away from black, but it the light you could see the brown tints. Damian on the other hand, his hair was just jet black. “That’s so cool!”

Damian seemed taken aback by this reaction for a moment, chuckling to himself, and brushing a hand through is hair. “Is it? It’s just wear I was born.”

“No, that’s legit awesome.” He ripped open the remaining two sugar packets and poured them into his tea, then started stirring with his straw, listening to the way the ice cubed clinked against the glass. “You were born in a whole nother half of the world.”

The absolute faintest simper pulled at Damian’s lips. “I consider myself lucky. I’ve been able to see a lot of world.”

“So you like, travel a lot?” Jon took a sip from his tea, only to get a straw full of sugar granules. See? This is why we can’t have nice things. Nowhere north of the Mason Dixon line has sweet tea, so now we all have to hope you can stir your sugar enough to get it to dissolve in cold tea. The teas too cold! It’s never going to dissolve right!

Damian nodded. “I travel quite often. Usually for business now a days, although in the past my family traveled often.” He unfolded his napkin roll, revealing the utensils that had been kept inside. He laid the serviette across his lap before separating his utensils, his fork on his left, knife and spoon on his right. The billionaire’s son then took his spoon and stirred his cappuccino. Damian tapped the edge of the spoon against the ceramic mug before laying the piece of silverware face down on top of his knife. He took a drink. “I’m not a fan of traveling itself, but I do like exploring historical landmarks.”

Wow this was… This was surprisingly easy. Every little mantra of proper table manners Ma Kent had beat into Jon’s head, every little command that had made him go stiff trying to follow dissipated, and he just… relaxed. Jon watched Damian take another sip from that ruby red mug, and instantly forgot why he’d ever been nervous in the first place. He leaned his forearms on the edge of the table, his wrists crossing on the surface. “Favorite place you’ve ever been. Go.”

“Oh. That’s difficult.” Damian looked off to the side, towards the bar, and licked the foam from his upper lip as he thought about it. “If I had to pick one place? I would say Istanbul. Although Budapest and the islands along the Caribbean Sea are close seconds and thirds.”

“Woah, so you really _have_ been all over.” Jon took another sip of his tea. “Why do you like Istanbul so much?”

“The architecture, mostly.” The man had a fond expression on his face. “The Blue Mosque is absolutely stunning.”

“That’s so cool.” He couldn’t help the wide grin that was spread across his face. Damian had been all over the world. He traveled, and he loved architecture, and he was born on the other side of the world. Jon tucked each piece of information away as a waiter deposited their appetizers and two small plates on their table.

One plate contained four slices of avocado toast -- AKA Millennial crack -- topped with roasted cherry tomatoes, basil, pistachio nuts, and wedges of camembert cheese. Each portion was generously drizzled with olive oil and what looked like some kind of vinaigrette. On the other platter was a bowl filled with hummus. Slices of kumato tomatoes and cucumbers were arranged in a perfect pattern around one half of the bowls perimeter, while triangles of naan completes the circle on the other side.

“Help yourself.” Damian gestured to the food.

“Wow. This looks good.” Jon could feel his mouth salivating, and it was at that moment that he remembered he hadn’t actually eaten yet today. He reached for the avocado toast, before halting in his tracks. “Sorry. Do you mind if I use my hands?”

“I do not.” His “date” shook his head. As he’d said that, Damian wiped his spoon on his own napkin before dipping it into the hummus and scooping a sizable mass onto his little plate, making sure to get some of the tomato and cucumber with it. He then pulled a slice of the naan from the bowl.

Jon was instantly reminded that he needed his own napkin in his lap -- Ma would have murdered you, boi -- and quickly made the proper adjustment before pulling a piece of toast onto his platter. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually ordered this stuff before. Like, I’ve made it, but I’ve never gone out and gotten it. I’ve defs never had it this fancy.”

“Really?” Damian spread the hummus onto his naan, wrapping the flat bread around the dip. “First time for everything I suppose.”

Ok now… How to eat this… The piece of bread on Jon’s plate was oblong and thich, and with a mountain of veggies and cheese on top, this certainly wasn’t a ‘take it in one to two bites’ time food. The polite this would probably be to cut it in half… But then his fork and knife would be dirty. Which would mean when their waiter came back to clear the dishes, she’d take his utensils with it, Then he’d be sitting around, fork and knife-less, and when his actual food got here he would have to do that awkward thing where he asks for new silverware, and then he has to wait around for them, and you know they never actually bring you a new set right away. Have you noticed that? It always takes like, four business days to get to you, and they then your food’s cold, whoever you’re there with is done eating, and the Fire Nation’s busted through the wall at Ba Sing Se.

Jon just took a bite and hoped he didn’t a) get his mouth too dirty, and b) didn’t look like a complete animal.

“So enough about me.” Damian began once he’d finished his first morsel. “Tell me about yourself.”

Well that completely caught Jon off guard. For a second there he’d gotten so excited about learning more about Damian, he’d forgotten part of this little brunch excursion was to share details about himself too. He covered his mouth with a fist as he swallowed. “What do you want to know?”

Damian simply shrugged. “Any specific interests? Hobbies, perhaps?”

“Oh uh…” Why is it that everytime someone asks you a question about yourself, you immediately draw a blank? “Well I really like the outdoors. I’ve always liked hiking trails or hanging around on farms.”

“So you _are_ a farm boy.” There was a laugh in Damian’s voice and a glint in his eyes as he took a piece of avocado toast for himself, and cut it into fourths.

“Yeah, and I’m gosh darned proud of it.” He snorted as he swiped a scoop of the hummus. “I grew up right next to my best friend’s dairy farm, and my grandparents still have their wheat farm in Kansas. So when I was a kid I spent most of my time outside. I still love it. There’s nothing like how fresh the air is out of the city.”

“I bet that makes living here difficult.” Damian rested his elbows on the table, crossing his fingers together and placing the point of his chin on the intersection. He had a bemused smile on his face, as his head seemed to tilt just slightly to the right.

“We make it work.” Jon shrugged. He picked at the crust on his toast, trying to maintain some kind of eye contact, only to look down and watch the crumbs fall onto the plate. “I go to the park a lot, and my parents and I go on a lot of hikes and stuff.”

“Where is there to go hiking around here?”

“First State National Historic Park is about an hour and a half away. It’s got some really cool trails, and some old colonial houses you can look at.” Jon bit into his lower lip. He knew exactly what he wanted to say right now, but it was about to be the nerdiest thing he’d ever said to someone he was interested in. So nerdy, that Kathy had put it right at the top of the ‘don’t you fucking dare talk about this on your maybe-kinda-sorta-a-date’ list. But he wanted to say it, and when he looked up, he could see that Damian was watching him, earnestly, as if he were genuinely interested in what Jon had to say. The funniest part? Jon actually wanted to believe it. So then… Maybe what he was about to say would be completely self sabotage, but if Damian didn’t judge him for it… Well… That was something. Right? “They uh… They also do those old settlement reenactment things. Kinda like Civil War reenactment? Minus the fake fighting, but they still wear all the costumes. It’s super accurate and um… pretty cool.”

There was a moment of silence that felt like an eternity, most of which Jon spent trying to figure out just how fast he’d need to run in order to break through the window; his chin was ducked down into the collar of his shirt. See? _This_ was exactly  why he’d been so worried about showing up today! He just knew this wasn’t going to work out—

“Jon.” When Damian finally broke into what was actually only five seconds of quiet, the ever-anxious teen looked up at the man to see what was by far the Miss America of all smiles. It was then that Jon discovered that when Damian smiled — like, _really_ smiled — his upper lip curled in so you could see his gums. “Are you a history nerd?” There was a delighted inflection to the question; not judgmental or mocking, but an adorable coo.

Someone call 9-1-1 because Jon’s heart has just been _murdered_. His exact emotion was one of those reaction memes of a person crying while surrounded by various emoji hearts. “Y-yeah.” Aaaaaaaaaand his voice cracked. Perfect. Just perfect. Clearly that was exactly what he needed right now. Jon coughed once into his fist, trying to at least recover his nerves from whatever hole they’d crawled into and died in. “I mean, I guess I am.”

“What aspect of history do you like the most?” Damian leaned forward in his seat. Apparently he was actually interested? Wild.

“I like American history.” Jon played with the straw in his tea, pushing it al the way in, covering the top with this thumb, and lifting the straw up to see the liquid still trapped inside, before lifting this thumb up and watching the liquid fall back into the cup. “And I know that’s kinda… well it’s controversial. But I like knowing the history of where I am.”

Damian only nodded. There wasn’t even the slightest inkling to suggest he was judging the teen in front of him at all. “You mentioned Civil War reenactments. Do you enjoy those?”

Oh my stars and garters Damian was actually interested in this. Jon took a big gulp from his tea, only to follow it with a sip of water -- Awkward? Mayhaps. Yet here we are. -- just hoping his face wasn’t red. He didn’t normally talk about this kind of stuff.... As in, he _never_ talked about this stuff. It felt like his mother had found the shoe box under his bed that most definitely did not contain photos of the nude variety. Ok, arguably, that would be worse. But thinking about that didn’t help Jon _at all_ right now. Honesty is the best policy. Honesty is the best policy. Honesty is the best-- Sugar honey iced tea please dont think this is weird. “It’s um… more of a guilty pleasure.”

“Something wrong?” The man tipped his head to the side, raising one eyebrow.

“No! No, nothing’s wrong.” He shook his head quickly, waving his hands in front of him too. “It’s just… Don’t judge?”

“Me? Judge? I would never.” A wide grin grew on Damian’s face, and while Jon knew very well that it was playful and teasing, it was so familiar. That was the exact same teasing smile he’d seen time and time again at work. Just seeing it made the young teen relax. Yeah. Damian wasn’t going to judge him.

“My dad took me to this weird summer program once when I was a kid. I guess it was kinda a summer camp.” He fiddled with the edge of the table, picking his finger nail into a crack in the paint. “We spent a week learning about different events in history, and at the end of it, each group performed a skit based on what they’d learned. Costumes and everything.” He accidentally pulled off a piece of paint and immediately shoved his hands into his lap. “I got really into it. Like, _really_ into it. I’ve been super into that kind of stuff ever since.”

“That’s adorable.” Damian reached to take another sip from his cappuccino. “Tell me more about it.”

“Wh--” The absolute last thing Jon ever expected was to sit across from _Damian heckin Wayne_ , at brunch, one a Saturday, after having woken up and gotten out of bed at a reasonable hour… explaining his colonial fantasies. “Wait, really?”

The man across from him rose a brow. “Of course. The purpose of us meeting is to get to know each other. If this is an interest of yours, I’d like to hear about it.”

Sweet Hera. This was like asking an eight year old to talk about their favorite Pokémon. Alright Jon. You got this. Act cool. Don’t get too excited. Just. Act. Natur-- “Ok, so as cool as the Civil War era stuff is, I’m also really into colonial stuff. Like, first settlers and towns and what not.”

As Jon rambled on about his fascination with history, explaining how his family used to go on road trips around the country, and listing off which historical landmarks were his favorites, Damian actually… Well he actually listened. No one else ever did that. He nodded along while Jon gestured wildly with his arms. He laughed when Jon made a joke about boot buckles. He even watched intently when Jon started using the salt and pepper shakers to demonstrate the terrain of a Revolutionary War reenactment he took part of last spring. As Jon kept going on and on, he found it harder to stop. The teen felt himself getting puppy-dog excited; there weren’t many people who let him talk at length about this stuff after all. The seventeen year old had absolutely no idea how long he’d been going on for, but he was in the middle of talking about that summer camp he used to go to, when the waitress came out of absolutely nowhere -- the kitchen, the door to which was actually perfectly in view from where Jon was sitting -- and put down the plates with their entrées in front of each of them.

“Oh, uh. Thank you.” Jon shrunk back into his chair, fiddling awkwardly with the hilt of his fork as he glanced up at Damian. The man was moving a few items around their table, making a more convenient layout for their plates. It was very casual. Yet, Jon felt like an absolute idiot right now. He couldn’t believe he got so carried away. The teen wiped sweaty palms on his napkin before taking his fork in his left hand and knife in his right. “I—”

“So tell me more about these re-enactments you participated in.” Damian interrupted as he oh-so calmly cut this omelet into small, even bites.

“You… You actually want to hear about that junk?” Ah yes. Call your hobby “junk”. That’s obviously the best way to get your crush interested in your weird shit.

“I’m intrigued as to how they work.” The dazzling young man reached for the paper shaker and sprinkled some across his plater. “How are these events organized?”

“Oh well uh… A lot of the planning and sign up is done online. Usually with Facebook groups and stuff.” Tickle him surprised. This was ok. He could talk about this stuff easily. Jon looked down at his shrimp and grits — God really blessed our earth when he put the recipe for this into someone’s head — and felt his mouth water when the scent filled his nostrils. He scooped up some of the grits with his fork before stabbing one of the pan-fried shrimp. The whole bite fit into his mouth easily, and he quickly smiled at the taste. Not as good as the family recipe, but still pretty damned good.

Damian watched Jon’s reaction to the taste carefully. “How is it?”

Jon covered his mouth with his hand before speaking. “Really good.”

The older fellow nodded  in approval before taking a bite of egg, cheese, and spinach. Unlike Jon’s big chomping, the Wayne took small, clean bites, dabbing his lips clean of grease and hollandaise with the corner of his napkin before washing the food down with a sip of water.

”Do you um, wanna try some?” Jon nudged the edge of his plate closer to the center of the table. The porcelain clinked at it tapped against the rim of the hummus bowl.

“No thank you.” He gave a polite smile. “You enjoy it.”

There was something about that tiny little simper that just made Jon feel like a teenage girl flipping through a gossip magazine to find the full-page spread of her favorite boyband. He poked at his shrimp with the end of his fork, pushing it around his plate so that it would be completely covered in grits before he actually picked it up. “I feel like I’ve been talking about about myself and what I like to do.”

“It’s alright. I’ve enjoyed hearing about it.”

Wonder if there are any full-page spreads of Damian....

“Can you tell me more about things you like?” Jon picked up his knife against and used it to just cut the little orange tail off of the shrimp. “Any horribly embarrassing hobbies that you normally would want to keep secret?”

Damian let out short a snort, halting his laughter by holding his napkin jut under his nose. “I don’t believe any of my interests are embarrassing, just as I don’t think any of yours are.”

“Nope. I just told you about how I dress up like a toy soldier in my free time. You gotta share a little tidbit about yourself now.” Jon placed his knife down before taking a bit out of his lunch.

“I suppose that’s fair.” The older lad took a sip from his cappuccino, then looked into the mug, most likely realizing he was almost done with it. There was a thoughtful expression on Damian’s face as he seemed to contemplate whether or not he wanted to order another one. “My personal interest are more aligned with art. I enjoy drawing primarily, but I also play a few instruments.”

“What do you play?”

“Let’s see.” Damian began counting on his fingers. “Violin, piano, classical guitar, and cello. Recently I’ve been trying to learn the harp as well.”

“Well color me impressed. That’s a long list.” The teen leaned his elbows onto the table. “Now the real question; can you _actually_ play, or does it sound like a cat scratching a chalkboard, and everyone’s too polite slash intimidated to say anything?”

A devilish gleam appeared in Damian’s eye, almost watching the grin spreading across his face. “I’m a wonderful musician, thank you very much. Only two windows shatter every time I play.” The young man took a moment to laugh to himself. He shook his head in response to his own joke. “No I’m quite good. I’ve received several awards over the years.”

“Really? So you perform and stuff?” He grabbed a forkful of grits, and instantly wished he had some kind of hot sauce for it. They were good, seasoned with more than just salt for once, but they were missing that little kick he loved.

“I’m a member of the symphony orchestra at my school.”

“Oh right.” Jon cleared his throat with a sip of iced tea. “You’re probably in college, right?”

“I am.” Damian finished off his coffee.

“What uh-- What school?” This was about where the potential of them having a relationship got sticky. The age difference may not have been big between them, about two to three years from what he’d gathered, but they were in very different stages in their lives. Damian was in college already, meanwhile Jon was just about to start having panic attacks staring down at CommonApp and crying over admissions essays. It also meant that at the end of the summer, Damian would be going back to whatever rich kids college he went to. Heck. What if he went to some school abroad? That was totally possible. Welp. Time to give up not Kent. Clearly this isn’t going to work out.

“I attend Princeton.” Holy Ivy League Batman. Well that made sense. Seemingly smart rich guy _would_ go to a definitely smart rich school.

“Wow. Good school.” Duh. Of course it wa a good school. He doesn’t need you telling him that.

“You’re still in highschool, yes?” Damian scooped a bit of leftover hummus onto his plate, combining it with a chunk of his omelet.

“Yeah I am.” Now he felt like a dumb youngster, standing on the side of Route 52 with two Caterpies and a Metapod. Why was he so damn _young_. “Just got my senior year left.”

“I wish you good luck. I remember senior year being quite stressful.” With slightly less than half of his omelet left, Damian seemed to have decided he was finished. He lined his utensils up next to each over, going across the top of his plate. He then called their waiter back over, asking for a simple cup of black coffee. “You seem like you’re quite smart, so I’m sure you’ll be just fine.”

“Awn. Thanks, Damian.” Jon smiled wide at him. Something about seeing that Damian had finished his food made Jon eat faster. Not that he felt rushed. Totally not that he felt rushed. He obviously did not feel completely rushed….. Ok so he felt rushed. But it was ok! Totally ok! Jon was always a fast eater anyways, so he just took an extra-large pile on of grits, grabbing two full shrimp with it and jamming it into his mouth. It wasn’t until he realized that he could barely shut his mouth. Ok. Horrible ideal. Jon had to keep a hand over his mouth as he open-mouth-chewed for a while until he was finally able to look like a well mannered human being again. Yep. This was the last date he was ever going to get with this boy.

“You’re more than welcome to take your time.” Damian thanked the waitress as she placed a cup of coffee down in front of him, and cleared away a few dishes.

“Didn’t you say you had to hit the road at a certain time though?” Jon rose a brow.

Damian checked his watch. “Ah. Yes. Thank you for reminding me.” The fellow then sat up just a bit straighter, straightening out his clothing. He gripped his coffee mug with both hands, smiling down at it briefly, before a serious expression replaced it. “Jon. I’m afraid I have to change to a rather serious subject matter.”

Fuck.

Alright folks. Shows over. It was fun while it lasted. What’s this going to be? “It’s not you, it’s me”? “We’re just not right for each other”? “I’m not ready for this kind of relationship”? “I just wanted you make sure I get extra caramel in my lattes”? “You’re a fucking child. Get out”? The possibilities were endless. While Jon was sitting in his seat, readying himself for disappointment, Damian looked like he was conducting a job interview.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Jon rubbed sweaty palms against his pant legs. He didn’t know why he’d gotten his damned hopes up. Thinking this was a date. What’s wrong with him? He was a dumb, idiotic, moronic little gay boy who shouldn’t have let his got damned wet dreams get the better of hi---

“What is this?”

Jon’s absurd train of thought cut off entirely and he stared at the five foot seven piece of gorgeous in front of him in utter confusion. “I’m... I’m sorry?”

“Sorry. I should clarify.” The teen let out a breath. “I hate to assume you might have any ill will, because you do seem like a genuinely good person.” Damian rubbed his thumb against the ceramic handle of his mug. He glanced up at Jon and gave a slight smile, before looking back down into the unfortunately watered down coffee. “The problem is my position.”

“Your position?” Color Jon confused because this wasn’t making sense.

“My father.” Damian let out a sigh. “Even if I were to try to seperate myself from him, I’m a Wayne. It’s not uncommon for people to try and get close to me in an attempt to find company secrets or some form of scandal. The fact of the matter is, you’re the son of two very famous reporters, and---”

So maybe laughing was not the best reaction to have here, but you see folks, you ever sit around watching America’s Got Talent clips on YouTube, and suddenly -- and without warning -- you just sort of bark out a belly laugh that sounds suspiciously like a donkey crossed with a clown horn? It was a mistake; a very ill timed mistake. It will probably happen again. Jon will continue to regret all his life choices. The second that sound left him, and he saw that look of utter shock on Damian’s face, Jon knew he needed to cover his tracks. “I’m so sorry. But trust me. That’s not what’s happening here.”

“It’s not?” The olive skinned man rose a brow.

“Not at all.” Jon shook his head. “My parents don’t even know I’m seeing you today. They’re also not so diabolical that they’d send they’re son after you.”

“So I will not be seeing an exposé based on what I share with you?”

“Absolutely not.” The barista crossed over his heart with this fingers. “Cross my heart. Hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t do those last to.” Awn. That’s sweet. He doesn’t want anyone to die. Damian took in a breath. “Then I must ask… What is this?”

Jon instantly felt flustered. It was a very upfront question, and however Jon answered, and however Mr. Delicious over here responded, could drastically affect the course of whatever-the-heck this was. “I uh….” He scratched at the back of his neck, feeling the sweat on his palm mix uncomfortably with the oil on his skin. “I thought that like… I kinda thought this was maybe, like… a date?”

“A date?”

“Uh…..” Oh fuck. “Yes?”

Christ on a cracker why was Damian’s expression so damned hard to read? _Why was this boy so poised?_ Wait-- Wait hold the phone…. What that-- Was that a smile? It was. It was a smile. Damian Wayne was smiling at him. _The_ Damian Wayne was _smiling_ at him after he’d called this little outing a date. That was good right? That had to be a good thing. That absolutely had to be a good thing.

“Well then.” Damian flagged down their waitress once more, as he reached inside his pants pocket for his wallet. He opened up the leather bifold and pulled out the same credit card Jon had rung up countless times before. “We’ll take the check please. Put it all on one card.”

“Of course.” The waitress smiled and took the credit card, before walking off to charge it.

“Wait.” Jon fumbled around for his own wallet. “Hold on. Let me pay you back.”

“Not allowed.” The young Wayne took another sip of his coffee, before wiping his hands off on his napkin, folding the fabric gently and laying it on top of the table. “After all. This was a date.”


	12. Son of a Beach

Sand was the absolute worst.

It got absolutely anywhere and everywhere. It stuck to literally every surface, especially skin, somehow finding its way into crooks and crevices you didn’t even know you had. The absolute worst part? Once it got there it was worse that glitter, because not only did it never leave, no matter how hard you tried, it didn’t even look nice! The unfortunate reality was that sand was all over beaches, and there was no way to get around it.

One day after the Fourth of July had been decidedly canceled due to rain storms, the Kent’s and Branden’s decided to do their not-so-annual trek to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. There was no way this could be called an yearly venture, because sometimes they came here more than ten times in one year, sometimes they say around and realized they completely forgot to go even once in the entire year of 2015. The only anniversary being celebrated was a belated national holiday, and yet Jon watched as his father proudly declared this their “annual beach trip” both on Facebook, every twenty minutes to whomever he just happened to be talking to that day.

The Fourth of July was somewhat a big deal to this family of self-proclaimed country hicks ー although I guess Dad actually _is_ a real hick. Smallville and all that ー and the people of Hamilton always seemed to agree; the Branden’s in particular for that matter. No matter how much time passes, Jon and Kathy’s family's always seemed to get together this time of year. Usually it was a very last minute, poorly planned out barbecue outback someone’s farm, with enough space between neighbors to light off barely legal firecrackers of their own. But some years ー this year ー they decided a change in date required a change of pace. So, two hours after the asscrack of dawn, when all the cattle had been fed and cared for, Kathy and her Grandpa hit the road in their muddied up 2003 Ford F-150, and swung by Metropolis, where they caravanned in two separate cars for what should have only been a half hour drive, and ended up being a whole one.

After scouring for placed to park, Jon sat with Kathy and Lois on a wooden bench, watching with little to no amusement as his dad and Grandpa Cobb messed with the new electronic parking meters. They’d been here all of three minutes, and Jon already managed to get sand in his flip-flops.

Great.

Just great.

“Jon, honey. Let me get some sunblock on you.” Lois dug through her purse, a large woven straw tote bag that Jon had _never_ seen before in his life, and pulled out a one gallon ziplock bag filled with every SPF you could think of.

“Oh. Could I get some of that?” Kathy immediately piped in, reaching over Lois’s shoulder and just grabbed the bottle of SPF 35. She started smearing it over her legs first.

Lois pulled out a canister of spray on sunscreen, and a little tube of Neutrogena cream. “Come on. Stand up straight for me.”

“Alright.” Jon pushed himself up off the bench and stood with his arms and legs spread like a starfish, screwing his eyes shut and holding his breath as he felt the cold blast from the aerosol hitting his skin. If there was one thing Lois Lane was afraid of, it was skin cancer. Not a single whisper of sunburn would dare appear if she had anything to say about it. So it just goes to show that she made damned well sure that her “baby” was suitably covered, from head to the straps on his toes.

“I’m just going to get into your tank top real quick.” Of course, she was already pulling back the collar of the palm tree print tank top and spraying Jon’s chest as she said that.

“We finally figured it out.” Grandpa Cobb chuckled as he and Clark stepped up to the rest of their crew. “Only took a thousand tries.”

“I put the receipt on the dash, Lo.” Clark adjusted the brim of his cap and looked around. “Oh, it looks like Dolles is still open.”

“Jon. Stand still. I haven’t gotten your face yet.” Lois reprimanded the teen as he tried to move away.

“The print on those machines is tiny.”

“Did you remember your glasses, Gramps?”

Jon wiggled out of his mother’s hold. “Mom, I can do my face myself.”

“Oh no you don't.” Lois poured some of the SPF 50 cream into her hand, and reached forward to start smearing a big glob of it over Jon’s cheeks. “Last time you completely missed your ears.”

“I think his hair’s grown out long enough to cover his ear, Mrs. Lane.”

“What do you think, Lo? Should we get some Taffy?”

Jon let out a sigh and conceded to his mother’s Mother Hen-ing. He kept his eyes shut as the hand meticulously spread the sunblock all over his face with absolutely no delicacy, and eventually rubbed it all in.

“They need to make the print bigger on those machines.”

Lois stepped away when she was done rubbing in the sunscreen, and looked over her boy before nodding. “Kathy, you have a bag right?”

“Yep.” The teenage girl turned on the heels of her turquoise Birkenstocks to show off the drawstring backpack hanging from her shoulders.

“Good.” From somewhere in that Mary Poppins tote Lois had, the woman pulled out a second, smaller ziplock baggie with a second set of sunscreens inside it. She pulled open Kathy’s backpack and put the item inside. “Make sure to reapply, you two."

“Of course, Mom.” Jon nodded, although his mind was completely occupied on the flock of seagulls going ham on an abandoned hotdog bun.

“Alright then.” Clark got the attention of the whole group. “I’m going to make sure we have a reservation at Grotto’sー”

“You mean Nicola’s.” Grandpa Cobb cut Clark off.

Oh no.

He _did not_.

Jon winced when he saw the expression on his father’s face as the man tried so desperately to start a fight with an old man about restaurants. “No.” The kansas man took a deep breath. “I meant Grotto’s. I want to get a table on the boardwalk.”

Some people were particular about their pizza. They had their preferences. Their likes and dislikes. It was totally natural. Except, here’s the thing. In the case of Grotto’s versus Nicola’s, it was an all out turf war. Think Sharks and Jets. If you were a Grotto’s family, you stuck to Grotto’s. You wouldn’t _dare_ be seen eating _anything_ from Nicola’s. You most certainly were never seen anywhere near one of their signature Nic-o-Boli’s. That was just a line you did not cross. If you were a Nicola’s family, you were wrong.

“Oh yes. The boardwalk does sound good.” Grandpa Cobb hummed, lifting up his boating hat ー he never boated ー and scratched the top of his head. “There’s always Obie’s.”

“I’m really feeling pizza tonight actually, Cobb.” Lois smiled at the old man. “We can go to Obie’s for lunch.”

“Can Kathy and I split off?” Jon piped into the conversation again. It was always weird being the teenagers on the outside of an adult conversation.

“That’s what I was getting to.” Clark cleared his throat. “I’m going to make sure we have that dinner reservation. The fireworks are supposed to be at nine thirty, so plan for a later dinner.”

Lois nodded along, checking her phone to confirm the timings. “We’ll say be ready to meet at seven, but I’ll text you Jon when we have the exact time.”

“Sounds good to me!” Kathy cheered. She started undoing the braid in her hair, instead pulling it back into a normal ponytail.

“Seven it is.” Jon nodded along, though he was already reaching for Kathy’s wrist. The two teens were oh so slowly backing away from their guardians.

“Alright. Be safe, and don’t talk to strangers.” The usual parental warning.

That was their queue. Both teenagers turned on their ties and started speed walking towards the boardwalk. “We won’t!” Jon called over his shoulder. The concrete by the parking lot soon turned into old slats of wood at the two hit the boardwalk, and they were instantly hit with the smell of the ocean and the obnoxious sound of seagull squawking away. They kept walking, turning right and ducking around a corner until they would certainly be out of sight from Jon’s parents and Kathy’s grandfather alike.

“Coast clear?” Kathy looked behind them.

Jon took a look as well, scanning the area and confirming that they were, in fact, completely hidden. “Crystal.”

Without skipping a single beat, Kathy all but ripped her backpack off and thrust it into Jon’s arms. She then tore off the hoodie she had been wearing, revealing a purple bikini top with black and blue polka dots. She hiked up her jean shorts as high as she could. Similarly, Jon shucked the khaki shorts he had on so the pair of swim trunks; orange and white stripes with the silhouettes of palm trees.

Now, some of you might be thinking “Jonathan! My word! Palm trees on top _and_ down below? I expected more from a fashion forward gay like yourself!”

You were right to, but our boy’s one step ahead.

Without hesitation, Jon yanked the tank top off over his head. He passed the shirt over to Kathy, who pulled it on instead, before reaching into the pocket of his swim trunks and pulling out a second tank top. This one was designed to look like a slice of watermelon; green at the shoulders, and pink with black flecks going down the body.

Kathy stuffed the extra clothes into her backpack while Jon pulled out a glasses case from his other pocket. Inside was a set of contact lenses, which he threw in using the front-facing camera on his phone as a mirror. He tucked his glasses into the case. By the time he was slipping his glasses into the backpack as well, Kathy was already passing him one of two pairs of rainbow striped sunglasses.

“Mission accomplished.” The blonde made a clicking sound with her tongue as slid her sunglasses on, and pulled her ponytail out, using the elastic to tie the bottom of the borrowed tank up so her stomach was showing.

“Oh totally.” Jon slung the drawstring bag over his shoulders.

“Selfie?”

“Duh.”

They huddled in close, Jon holding out Kathy’s phone ー she had a better camera, but he had longer arms ー as they posed for the picture; tongues out and peace signs up. Once that was out of the way, they started walking again. Can’t stay in one place too long if the parental units were around.

“Awn, this is actually pretty cute.” Kathy smiled as the photo as she uploaded it to Instagram, flipping through filters to pick the best one. “We defs need some better beach pics though.”

“Totes.” Wasn’t too hard to agree with that. You couldn’t exactly come to the beach with your best friend without making sure you took a bajillion photos of each other.

“Omg. You _need_ to send one to that hot guy.”

Jon almost keeled over, coughing into his fist before giving Kathy a well deserved shove in the shoulder. “Gurl you crazy.”

“No you like, totally gotta.” Some people used wearing dark tinted glasses as a way to subtly check people out as you walk by. Kathy? Kathy Branded, though? Nope. She uses hers as a way to make sure people know damned well she’s giving them the once over. Any time they passed an attractive looking guy ー tall, dumb, and muscley seemed to be her type ー she’d pull down the frames of her lenses. If they were a real catch, she’d even let out a low whistle. She lovingly referred to it as “taking back catcalling”.

“I’m not randomly sending Damian a beach pic.” He rolled his eyes. “No ma’am. Ain’t happenin’.”

“Pussy.”

“Bitch.”

“All I’m sayin, is it’s been like, a weekー”

“A day.”

“Exactly.” She pinched the fabric at Jon’s side as she pulled him out of the way of some family that clearly wasn’t watching where they were pushing their stroller. “A whole ass day, and you still haven’t heard shit from him.”

Jon let out a groan. He knew that. He knew that damned well. But he _also_ knew that it was hot as fuck, and they were really close to a Kohr Bros, aka the best fucking frozen custard you will ever have in your life. Jon casually nudged Kathy into line with him. There was no way she was about to complain anyways. “He went home for the weekend, so he was probs busy, and I’m not bothering the guy.”

Fun Fact: It has been scientifically proven that the glare from a spunky blonde is stronger than any U.S Marine. If you haven’t guessed, Jon is not a Marine. So When Kathy gave him _that look_ he just knew he was done for. “Jonathan Samuel Kent, you take out your fucking phone out right now and bother that boy or I’ll do it for you.”

He gulped and nodded, pulling his phone out and thumbing over to Damian’s contact. “What do I even say?”

“Send nudes?”

“I’m gonna smack you.”

Kathy left out a snort. “Just say something like ‘hey, I had fun the other day’ or some shit.” She pushed up onto her toes, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder for balance, so she could see what flavors Kohr’s had today. “Oh shit they got mint now.”

“What can they blend it with?” Jon didn’t look up from his phone.

“Uuuuh.” She squinted, lifting up her sunglasses. “Just chocolate.”

Jon hummed to himself as he typed out a message, only to delete it again. “That doesn’t sound bad.”

“But they’ve also got peanut butter, but if you wanted a swirl you’d have to get it with strawberry. Ew.”

He started typing out another sentence. _Don’t sound creepy. Don’t sound creepy. Don’t sound_ ー “How do you spell ‘venture’?”

“Or I could do chocolate and vanilla….”

“Is it ‘ur’ or ‘er’?”

“Wait. Fuck, they can’t do that.”

“God bless spell check.” He looked down at the message he’d typed up, twisting his mouth to the side. “How’s that?” He turned his phone so Kathy could see.

The blonde looked it over, before nodding in approval. “Looks good.”

_Send_

* * *

 

Hey Damian! It’s Jon. I had a really good time the other day.  
I hope your venture to Gotham wasn’t too bad!

 

* * *

 

 They stepped forward in line, and now Jon could finally look at the options listed of the custard dispensers behind the counter. “If I get a large, will you get a large?”

“Yeah if you’re buyin.” Kathy chuckled.

“I’ll cover the cones if you cover toppings and tip.” Jon started pulling out his wallet. Considering he’d saved all that money on brunch just a few days ago, he wasn’t exactly concerned about spending eight bucks on ice cream for two.

“You got yourself a deal, Kent.”

After what felt like a lot longer than they should have been just standing in the hot, baking sun, Jon and Kathy finally managed to secure their soft serve cones. Jon went for the classic orange and cream ー honestly, if you’re at Kohrs and _not_ getting orange and cream, then you’re doing something wrong ー while Kathy last minute seemed to decide to go with straight chocolate. It was a less valid choice, but you couldn’t _really_ go wrong. They both went for rainbow sprinkles.

Once they’d stepped away and found a white painted bench along the side of the boardwalk, facing out towards the ocean, they took an obligatory ice cream selfie, before Jon had to speed to lick up the custard that was threatening to drip down the side of the cone.

“Ok, so like, does this mean you’re taken now?” Oh god. Jon completely forgot Kathy was one of those people who bit into her ice cream. He could just feel his teeth freeze as he watched her chomp into what was a perfectly lickable frozen treat after asking the question.

“I don’t think so?” He shrugged, tracing his tongue over the swirl marks in the custard. He had this weird habit of just going straight for all the sprinkles. Honestly, he might as well just ask for jimmies in a cup next time. “Like, it was only one date, ya know? And he probably just paid cause he felt like he had to.”

“You dumbass.” Kathy knocked their shoulders together. “He agreed it was a date, so he’s gotta be totally into you.”

“I dunno…” Right before Jon could let his truck load of insecurities spill out, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. “Oh fuck.” 

* * *

 

**Damian**  
_Good afternoon. I also had an enjoyable time. The drive was not so difficult, however I do wish I’d been able to stay more than just one night._

 

* * *

“ _Oh fuck!_ ” The exclamation really deserved a repeat. He thrust his phone at his best friend so she could see it too. “What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Well first off, we’re gonna wait two minutes.” Kathy snatched the phone, taking another bite out of her soft serve. “Don’t wanna make it look like you’re desperate or something.”

“But I am desperate.”

“No shit Sherlock.” She rolled her eyes. “But _he_ ain’t gonna know that.”

“Yeah, but what do I say?”

“Hold up.” It was only a matter of second before Kathy got to the cone, taking a big crunch out of the top. She licked at her hand when some of the melted chocolate glopped onto her fingers. After a little thinking she typed out a short little something.

“Wait let me see it before you send it.” Jon leaned over the girl’s shoulder to take a peak.

* * *

 

_Oh dear. That sounds like a pain. Are you already back in Metropolis, cutie? ;)_

 

* * *

“Don’t you dare call him ‘cutie’!” Jon lunged for his phone, but had to stop half way when his custard threatened to topple over. He quickly had to readjust, and make the decision to scarf down the rest of his dessert. “Erasehh dat.” The words were barely understandable with a mouth full of cream.

“I’m just joshing around.” Kathy snorted and edited the message before sending it.

* * *

 

Oh dear. That sounds like a pain. Are you already back in Metropolis?

 

* * *

“Good.” Jon snatched his phone back, making sure that yes, she did, in fact, erase the stupid, flirty stuff at the end there. He looked back over and saw that Kathy had finished her cone, and was now wiping her hands off on his shirt ー Thanks, babe. Real nice ー so Jon quickly stuffed the rest of his own into his mouth. Bless the lord almighty he never got brain freeze.

“Alright, what next?” Kathy closed her eyes and tipped her head back so she could feel the sun on her face.

“Well there’s shopping, or this tiny, little thingy they call the ocean.”

“I let the towels in the truck.” Kathy hummed. “I’ve got the key though.”

“We can head back.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

 

**Damian  
** _I returned this morning._

That’s a lot of driving in one weekend.

 

* * *

It only took a few minutes to get back to the trucks, part of which was spent looking around corners to make sure there were no other Kents or Brandens in sight. From there, grabbing two beach towels and getting back to where the boardwalk ended and the sand begun was a breeze.

* * *

 

**Damian** **  
** _Agreed. I’m not a fan of being in the car that long. I much prefer flying._

 

* * *

Neither teen took their sandals off when they got to the sand, but apparently that didn’t matter, because _hot damn_. It spilled underneath Jon’s feet and was hotter than molten lava. He let out a high pitched not-quite-a-cry-not-quite-a-shriek as both he and Kathy started running to where the sand got cooler, and a few shades darker.

Yup. He hated sand.

The pair of teens had to walk a decent length down the beach, staying along the shore line, just above where the tide came up onto, before they could find an empty patch in a sea of blue, rented beach umbrellas. They laid out the bigger of the two towels for the two of them to share, and stuffed the second one in Kathy’s bag to stay relatively sand-free.

“Alright. Selfie with the water in the back?” Jon pulled out his phone.

“Hell yes.” Kathy flipped her hair over her shoulder, and moved in next to Jon. They both showed big smiles as Jon snapped the picture.

 

* * *

 

So I’m guessing road trips aren’t at the top of your agenda lol

 

* * *

“Hey, Bae. Can you get my back for me?” Kathy had shucked off her clothes, so she was just in her bathing suit, holding out the sunblock Jon’s mother had lovingly forced upon them.

“Yeah. One sec.” Jon pulled his shirt off over his head and folded it up, before placing his phone and wallet down with it in the center of the towel. He took the spray canister out of the ziplock baggie, and made quick work of spraying down Kathy’s back ー can’t let your boo burn ー before tossing the SPF35 back towards her and turning around himself.

“My turn.”

* * *

 

**Damian  
** _Absolutely not._

Oh come on!  
It’s totally not that bad

 

* * *

“Want a few before your hair gets wet?” Jon held his hand out for Kathy’s cellphone.

“Who needs a boyfriend when I’ve got you?” The blonde laughed, tossing her phone half-heartedly across the two feet of distance between them ー and let me tell ya folks… thank _fuck_ he caught it ー then, she took a few steps back, striking a pose with one hand trailing through her hair. Jon held the camera up, as if he were taking the shot, but actually took a could shitty selfies before actually switching the camera an snapping the picture of Kathy.

* * *

 

**Damian** **  
** _I completely disagree. A vehicle is not large enough for an adult to stretch out in. The seats grow increasingly uncomfortable as time goes on. This is also disregarding the lack of restrooms available on the road, as well as the constant traffic._

 

* * *

Kathy wanted a few different kinds of poses, and that was all fine and dandy by Jon. He would have to remember to thank Jimmy Olsen for the tips on how to angle pictures and work with the lighting at hand, because these were coming out pretty spot on. #nofilter

“I want to get one closer to the water.” By that, she meant in the water. The blonde teenage girl went up to the shoreline, finding a good spot where the tide came up just high enough to cover her ankles. She posed again, and by some miracle, Jon managed to take a photo with a wave crashing behind her. 

* * *

 

**Damian** **  
** _Sorry. It occurs to me now that may have been rude, considering you seem to enjoy such trips._

No worries!  
Sorry I’ve been away from my phone  
I’m at the beach lol  
But seriously. Don’t worry about it. To each their own and all

 

* * *

It took way longer than necessary for Kathy to go through every single image ー glad to see you totally trust me Kath ー but it gave Jon the time to dilly dally on his own phone for a moment. Which of course meant he was just talking to Damian. Oddly enough, it wasn’t hard… Yeah, he each message came with just the slightest blight of anxious nausea, but it settled almost immediately upon opening each text. Slowly but surely, they actually seemed to be having some kind of conversation? Wild, am I right?

* * *

 

**Damian** **  
** _The beach? Was this a spontaneous trip, or a planned one?_

U know me. Mr. Spontaneous.  
It’s a family trip. Their doing fireworks tonight!!!!

 

* * *

_Oh fuck!_ Jon was all of a third of a second away from hitting the ‘send’ button when he caught himself before making one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Not only had he used total text talk garbage, but he’d almost let a their/there/they’re error slip past. Lord have mercy on his soul, what was he thinking? Thank the Babadook he’d caught himself, because if he hadn’t then he might as well just throw his phone into the ocean… or himself… whichever comes first.

* * *

 

You know me. Mr. Spontaneous.  
It’s a family trip. They’re doing fireworks tonight!!!!

 

* * *

“Jon put your fucking phone away and get your twink ass over here.”

There wasn’t exactly a way he for him to say no to that ー although he would personally argue that he leaned more towards otter than twink. Of course he didn’t have any facial hair… Maybe he was a jock then? Hm… We’ll need to think more on this.... But at the very least, he was most certainly not a twink ー so Jon just laughed and made sure his phone was tucked and hidden under a pile of clothes in the middle of their spread out towel, before running after Kathy. He practically body slammed into her, eliciting a shriek from the girl, as they both stumbled right over into the crash section, wear a wave broke right on top of them.

* * *

 

**Damian  
** _Well that sounds quite fun. I’m sure you’re busy, so I’ll leave you to it._

 

 


End file.
